Safety in Numbers
by Lawson227
Summary: Post- TRUE GRITS: Karen arrives back at the SBPD in the aftermath of the Thane Woodson case in time to help an injured Carlton. Unexpected conversations ensue. Starts out canon, wanders off fairly quickly. T for now, possibly M later on. Spoilers through SANTABARBARATOWN. Now COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**Safety in Numbers**

Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in **psych**_**, **_not even a grain of sand in the playground. Just having a bit of fun, especially with the finale looming.

This one's mostly for cabot007, who's been requesting another Lassiter/Vick fic. This week's ep gave me a pretty good opening, so spoilers for "True Grits" and any and everything that came before.

* * *

><p>Karen <em>hated<em> being away from the department. Not for things such as weekends or vacations, of course. No—those were well-deserved respites. But mandatory two-day late week seminars for police chiefs from across California where she had to drive three hours so she could listen to the chiefs from cities like Los Angeles and Oakland pontificate on the importance of _real_ police work? Those sucked. A lot. Because implied within all the pontification that passed as cocktail party small talk, was that the chiefs from well-to-do areas, such as Carmel or La Jolla or, for example… Santa Barbara, were soft. Spoiled. Had no idea what _real_ police work entailed.

Ha.

For one thing, they had no clue what went on in her town. The sheer number of cases they solved. Tough cases. Due to a staff that kicked absolute _ass_ at doing the same kind of real police work they did in LA or Oakland. Maybe not on the same scale, but by the same token, they also had far fewer hands with which to do their work.

Also?

_Also?_

Those nimrods didn't have to put up with Shawn Spencer.

Of course, technically, neither did she. She had hired him in the first place, theoretically, she could just as easily fire him. Except that for all his posturing and public idiocy, the man had a way of helping to bring in cases—_big_ cases, damn him—such that the mayor, overhearing Karen grumbling that she really and truly was going to shoot Spencer one of these days, had suggested, strongly, that she really and truly not.

Dammit.

Which was after two very long days away and a three-hour drive, she was heading toward her office instead of toward home and a well-deserved glass of wine because God only knew what sort of havoc Shawn Spencer could have wreaked in forty-eight hours. Because really, what was the likelihood he hadn't? It was more a matter of to what degree. She sighed. Seriously, mayor's request or not, was dealing with Spencer really worth it the migraines and the grays her hairdresser despaired over?

For what seemed like the thousandth time in the past six years, she forced herself to once more consider the cases he'd helped to close.

Dammit.

At least, it was Friday. With any luck, after she was done assessing what sort of potential mess she might have to clean up on Monday, she could go home, draw a ridiculously hot bath, douse it with scented oils, and crack open that bottle of Pinot Gris she'd been saving for a special occasion. Or just a random Friday night.

Hey—she might even break out the good dark chocolate. Because it was _that_ kind of Friday night.

As she rounded the corner toward her office, her gaze was automatically drawn toward the pool of light coming from the otherwise dimly lit detective's bullpen. The lone figure illuminated by the light prompted another sigh.

God only knew what havoc Spencer _had_ wreaked.

Dammit, dammit, _dammit_.

The sound of her bag dropping to the floor made the figure lift his head which in turn, made Karen gasp.

"Carlton, what in the _hell_—"

"Superficial," he broke in, clearly trying for his trademark bark—and failing, which revved her senses up to high alert.

"My ass," she replied mildly, her own exhaustion fading in the wake of the obvious pain dulling her head detective's normally sharp gaze. In the next instant, she noticed his wince and the telltale squint as he reached out to push the light aside.

"What the hell did Spencer do this time?"

"Much as I hate to say it, it wasn't Spencer's fault." The edges of his mouth twitched slightly before being overtaken by another wince. "This time." He shoved the file he'd been working on toward Karen before dropping his head into his hands, as if it simply weighed too damned much.

Dropping into the chair set alongside his desk, she skimmed the file, one brow rising as she read about the overturning of Thane Woodson's conviction, his subsequent release, and how it had resulted in the unimaginable scenario of O'Hara and Spencer pitted against one another as Psych attempted to prove the SBPD—specifically, O'Hara—had arrested the wrong man for the original crime. As was par for the course in any case in which Spencer was involved, shenanigans had ensued.

"Did they break up?" she asked without looking up.

"Sadly, no."

Surprising. While she was a firm advocate of staying out of her subordinates' personal lives, she had to admit as to a more than passing concern for O'Hara's sanity. She made a mental note to consider scheduling a psychiatric evaluation. She continued with her perusal of the report, and after a few more sentences, the source of Carlton's discomfort and the multiple abrasions on his face was revealed.

"Jesus," she breathed, studying the attached photos of the wrecked Crown Vic, the passenger side pretty much caved in.

Wait a minute…

Looking up from the report, she took in the small cuts peppering Lassiter's face—the _right_ side of his face. She looked back at the report, rapidly skimming the details and there it was—O'Hara had been driving.

Correctly interpreting her shocked glance he responded, "It was her case—her arrest. Seemed right she should drive." He shrugged and once again winced. Karen quickly read through the rest of the report, noting the arrest of the actual perpetrator and the fact that they'd apprehended a second perp and closed a case from '81 in the process. As usual, exceptional work from her people. Work worthy of cops from _any_ municipality—however—

There was one glaring omission within the report.

"Carlton—"

"We didn't have time, Karen. We had to follow the lead or risk losing both of them."

How did he _do_ that?

Because he was a damned good detective. Something she sometimes forgot.

"Detective Lassiter, you were on the receiving end of a high impact crash."

As he once again shrugged and winced, his hand coming up to rub at his shoulder, Karen felt a multilayered flash of anger shoot through her.

"Where's O'Hara?"

"Off with Spencer and Guster, in all likelihood celebrating the successful completion of the case and the inexplicable survival of their relationship."

_Which relationship?_

Karen shook off the automatic snarky retort in favor of clarifying her initial question.

"And I repeat, where's O'Hara? Why isn't she here, finishing the report while you get the medical attention you so obviously need? Better still, if she was acting as point, why didn't she insist you get medical attention as soon as the case was wrapped?"

"I'm head detective, Karen."

Very deliberately, she closed the report and placed it in his Out box. Just as deliberately, she leaned back in the chair, crossed her arms, and fixed him with a steady gaze. Normally, Carlton would meet it head on, just as steadily, not flinching, hell, not even blinking. Reassuringly, he did meet her gaze, but it was a sign of just how much pain he was in that all he did was prop his chin in his hand and slowly and very wearily… _blink_.

"I told her to go on—that I'd finish the report. Figured I'd go to the doctor afterward."

"Uh-huh." She took a deep breath, not certain at this point who she was more angry with. "And how, exactly, were you planning on getting there?"

When he remained stubbornly silent, she shook her head in disgust. "For God's sake, Carlton—have you forgotten I was on the line? I've suffered my share of concussions and you, my friend, clearly have a lulu. There's no way you can drive."

"I was going to have a uniform drive me to the hospital," he admitted, "and then call a cab to get home."

As he spoke, Karen felt her ire rising. Never mind that not only should it have been O'Hara filling out the damned report, she should have made certain her partner got to a doctor. When she considered how often Carlton had put O'Hara first—

A psychiatric evaluation was _definitely_ in order.

Heaving an exasperated sigh, she stood. "Come on."

He gazed blearily up at her, squinting as the light hit his eyes, illuminating the grayish circles beneath and throwing the dozens of small cuts into sharp relief.

"If, as Head Detective, you choose to take O'Hara's responsibilities as your own, then as Chief of Police, I choose to take yours."

"Karen—"

"Shut up, Carlton, or I swear to God, I will handcuff you and drag your ass to my car and don't think my years as Chief have eradicated my ability to do so."

The corners of his mouth twitched again. "No doubt at all, ma'am." He pushed himself to a standing position and almost immediately swayed, his pupils dilating alarmingly, almost obliterating the normally brilliant blue.

Instinctively, Karen stepped forward and grasped his elbows with both hands, holding him steady. This close, she could see the beads of sweat along his hairline; could feel the slight clamminess of his skin beneath her palms. The stubborn son of a bitch. He should have been at the hospital hours ago.

Angry as she was, she nevertheless felt compelled to ask, "Is O'Hara okay?"

"Slight sprain to one wrist. In between some astoundingly tasteless jibes regarding my supposed demise in the crash, Spencer expressed considerable relief all her widdle fingers remained intact."

Beneath the typical dry sarcasm, Karen clearly heard a note of something more. At one time, she'd suspected Carlton's feelings for O'Hara ran far deeper than even he might have wanted to admit, but these days, they had more the feel of a strong partnership coupled with an equally strong friendship. Except, perhaps that friendship didn't run quite so powerfully any longer and there was one damned good reason for that.

"Right now, I don't give a crap what Mr. Spencer thinks."

He muttered something about that made two of them as she guided him from the bullpen, her hold firm on one arm, keeping him on course, when he would have swayed into the wall. As she paused to retrieve her overnight bag, she was shocked to feel his free hand briefly cover hers.

"Thanks."

Karen swallowed hard as she looked up into his eyes, still a dull blue with pain, but otherwise, clear. Carlton Lassiter didn't often reveal himself, verbally or otherwise.

"You'd do the same for me."

"Of course I would. But I wouldn't need to." The implication clear that she had someone to look after her and he… well, didn't.

The resumed their journey down the hall, their footsteps echoing hollowly along the tiled expanse and hopefully masking the very quiet, "You'd be surprised," she couldn't prevent from escaping.

Maybe, too, it would mask the sigh of relief that it had finally escaped.


	2. Chapter 2

**Safety in Numbers**

Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in **psych**_**, **_not even a grain of sand in the playground. Just having a bit of fun, especially with the finale looming.

* * *

><p>"And did you, at any time, lose consciousness, Detective?"<p>

Carlton tried to glare at the officious little resident who'd been poking and prodding and asking the same damned questions as the admissions nurse and the tech and he thought, maybe even the janitor might have stopped by, but he was somewhat foggy on that last one. Glaring was rendered difficult, however, what with Nurse Ratched picking out the shards of glass he'd missed earlier and mercilessly swabbing at the small cuts with something that stung like a mother, not to mention, Karen Vick, sitting quietly in a corner, watchful as a hawk.

And why was she there anyway? Did she think he was going to try to sneak out the back before he could be assessed or something?

Never mind the idea _had_ occurred to him. Moment of weakness in the station aside—admitting out loud that he _might_ need to see a doctor, prompting a startled glance from Henry—it hadn't really been an issue. Not really. He'd had headaches before. And nausea. Admittedly, usually due to a hangover, but that was neither here nor there, really.

And if he swayed a little—okay, a lot—when he walked, well, it wasn't so bad he hadn't been able to finish out the case, side-by-side with O'Hara, weapon steady. If afterward he'd felt maybe a bit worse, taken more than a few deep breaths to keep from losing his lunch, well then, he'd have the weekend to recover, wouldn't he? No need for Vick to be there, nailing him with that dark, inscrutable gaze that kept him firmly planted on the examination table, was there?

No, there wasn't, dammit. But _nooooo_, they'd just ushered her right on in after him—thankfully, _after_ he'd changed into the stupid gown—without question. Like they recognized her natural authority. Or, God forbid, thought she… cared or something.

Right.

Yeah, natural authority.

"Detective?"

Train of thought. Whistling a mocking tune as it left the station.

Carlton forced himself to focus, struggling to remember what the doctor—Nowitzki, according to the name embroidered on the white coat worn over scrubs—had asked.

"I…"

"Detective, did you, at any time, lose consciousness?"

Judging by the smarmy little bastard's tone, he already knew the answer. Carlton debated not saying anything at all. Even debated lying.

But he couldn't.

Not just because it went against everything in which he believed, but because he couldn't shake the sense that that dark gaze studying him from the corner would be able to see right through any bullshit attempts at subterfuge.

And you know, he simply didn't have the energy.

"I'm not sure," he finally admitted with a frustrated sigh.

He could easily recall the sound of O'Hara's voice as she spoke to Spencer in the moments before the crash informing him they'd apprehended the correct perp. Recalled her obvious pride that she was finally righting a wrong—even if it meant admitting Spencer had been, God help them, right.

Could recall the jarring shock of the impact and sickening screech of metal against metal. Felt searing pain shooting through his side, the glass shards raining across his skin, and the explosive force of the airbag as it slammed into his chest and face. Recalled a brief moment of terror as he tried to move and couldn't before realizing it was the seatbelt holding him hostage. And somewhere in those few seconds of chaos, he could recall… _nothing. _

Just blackness and a dizzying sense of disorientation as commotion resumed.

"If it was, it was only for a couple seconds."

"That's all it takes," Dr. Nowitzki replied, scribbling on his clipboard.

"For what?"

Both Carlton and Nowitzki turned to Karen who waited, eyebrows raised. Carlton uttered a silent _Ha!_ as he watched the younger man squirm beneath that sharp, assessing stare.

"To upgrade this bad boy from a Grade II concussion to a IIIa." Nowitzki turned back to Carlton.

"Which means _what_?" And considered it a huge accomplishment that he'd left off "you officious little prick."

"Which means, Detective Lassiter, that you need rest and monitoring for the next forty-eight hours before being reexamined. Depending on the results of that exam, you'll either be prescribed more rest, or in a best case scenario, you'll be restricted to desk duty for at least a week. Or longer," he added with what looked to Carlton like a sadistic smile. It was as if the pathetic little excuse for a medical professional _knew_ what chaining Carlton to a desk would do to him.

"You're not going to admit me," Carlton growled. Dammit, he _hated_ hospitals. Sliding from the exam bed, he silently swore as he swayed and grabbed for bed's rails. Swore again, out loud, this time, as his slippery palms slid alarmingly along cool metal. An instant later cold metal was replaced by a warm grasp on his arms, holding him steady.

"You'll do what they tell you, Detective Lassiter."

He stared down into Karen's dark gaze, able even in his addled state, to read the steely determination and "do _not_ screw with me" intent.

"Relax, Detective—" the doctor interjected. "I have no intention of admitting you. For one thing, I like our nursing staff."

Karen's grip tightened on his arms as he automatically tried to reach for his weapon. Which was currently locked along with her sidearm in her trunk, he recalled with a disgusted snort.

"The rest and monitoring can just as easily take place at home as here, provided you have someone who can keep an eye on you."

"He does."

He did?

Carlton blinked at Karen. If she thought he'd let those creepy twin sisters or those whackaloon Farrows check on him, she was more out of her mind than he currently was. Maybe once upon a time he could have called O'Hara—or at least could have _said_ he could call her with a clear conscience but no actual intent of bothering her—but these days, calling her carried the risk that Spencer could potentially be part of the package, which meant Guster would definitely be part of the package and there were simply things a man with a brain injury shouldn't be subjected to.

Hell, the general public at large shouldn't be subjected to Spencer and Guster, but there was nothing to be done for that other than commitment to a mental facility, which was temporary at best, or euthanasia and he was fairly certain the latter was still frowned upon, no matter how justifiable.

Which left him at, _he did_?

He suddenly realized that while he entertained thoughts of Spencer and Guster's timely and humane—which was more than they really deserved—demise, Nowitzki and Karen had continued talking. About him. Without him. Like there was something _wrong_ with him. He supposed he'd better pay attention.

"The recommendation of waking a concussed patient every few hours has been called into question the past few years. Personally, I don't find it necessary. The key here is rest—in fact, let me go ahead and write a scrip for a mild sleeping agent, in case he finds it difficult to sleep."

Carlton started to pipe up that he was right _there_, dammit, not to mention, a grown man, so Nowitzki could talk to him, but the barely out-of-the-playpen pipsqueak was too busy scribbling something as he continued speaking.

"The MRI revealed a pretty deep bone bruise along with the strain in the right shoulder. That should heal on its own with rest and no unnecessary exertion for a couple of weeks. OTC meds will take care of the pain and swelling. Basically, we have no real reason to keep him here so long as someone can keep him from being—"

"Him," Karen finished, a slight smile twitching the corners of her mouth. "Treat a lot of cops, Doctor?"

"Too many," he replied with a slight smile. "Plus, my dad was a cop."

Finally, Carlton found his voice. "Was?"

The doctor glanced up, the expression in his eyes all too familiar. "Line of duty casualty couple years ago."

The urge to smack the little twerp subsided—somewhat. Couldn't be easy to be a good cop's kid. And he knew, without being told, this kid's dad had been a good cop. "Sorry to hear that."

Nowitzki nodded as he ripped a sheet from a pad and handed it to Carlton. "One reason I became an ER doctor. Allows me to be on the front lines in my own way. And you know, at least he got to see me graduate from med school."

"I'm sure he was very proud," Karen said with a sympathetic smile.

"He said he supposed it was the next best thing to becoming a cop." With a grin that clearly indicated it had been a longstanding joke between father and son, Nowitzki extended a hand to Carlton. "I know for a guy like you, Detective, being reined in is a real bitch, but do me a favor—follow those instructions and get back to it sooner rather than later. The city needs the guys like you out on the street."

Carlton's gaze met Nowitzki's as he shook the younger man's hand. Correctly interpreting the silent question, Nowitzki grinned, shedding the doctor persona for the young man who'd grown up with a cop for a dad.

"Dude, you remind me so damned much of him, it's kind of scary. And if you're half the cop he was, then trust me—it's definitely in my best interests to get you back out on the street in top form." As Carlton stood there, stunned into rare silence, Nowitzki released his hand and turned to shake Karen's.

"Ma'am—take care."

"I will, thank you."

Karen squeezed Carlton's arm as she spoke, making him suddenly aware that that she'd never once released him since rescuing him from falling into a graceless heap on the floor. That even once he'd clearly found his balance, she'd kept a hand on him, her touch warm and secure. And something in how she responded to Nowitzki's innocuous statement of departure made him quite certain she wasn't just talking about herself when she'd responded with her equally innocuous, "I will."

Somewhere deep in the foggy recesses of his brain he understood it to be odd.

Somewhere deep in the foggy recesses of his brain he understood the way Karen Vick had been behaving ever since she'd discovered him in the deserted bullpen could be classified as odd.

Somewhere deep in the foggy recesses of his brain he understood he might be imagining it all.

But he'd worry about that later. Because right now, he was exhausted and he ached and no matter how nice the little pipsqueak of a doctor had turned out to be, he wanted to get the hell away from this cold, sterile place.

"I'll step outside while you get dressed and see if I can't hurry along the discharge papers."

"Thanks," he managed to croak out, also suddenly understanding in the not-so-foggy part of his brain that her touch on his arm was really… nice.

Soothing.

And warm. Had he already mentioned warm? He thought maybe he had.

And nice and soothing and warm had a way of combining into something his long-deprived body welcomed in surprising—and embarrassing—fashion.

Thank God she'd slipped past the curtain sectioning off his cubicle before she could notice the effect an innocent touch had had on her forty-three year old Head Detective who really, concussed or not, should have better control.

No matter how nice and soothing and warm and…

And…

He sighed as he sank into a chair and stared blankly at the wall.

How outright _arousing_ he'd suddenly found Karen Vick's touch.


	3. Chapter 3

**Safety in Numbers**

Yeah, we know how it goes, right? Lalalala... no ownership in psych_, _not even a grain of sand in the playground. TPTB have everything, I have nothing, no infringement intended, ever.

* * *

><p>"What are you doing?"<p>

Karen turned into the drive leading toward the underground parking garage for Carlton's condo.

Easing up alongside the security keypad she said, "I'm assuming you have a second parking spot available."

"Yeah, but you could've just dropped me off out front."

Underscoring the familiar irritable tone was bewilderment wrapped in a healthy dose of exhaustion. While she felt sympathy, Karen welcomed the exhaustion—it would make him easier to deal with. She hoped.

"Here's the thing, Carlton—" She shifted the car into park and turned to face him. Light from the overhead security spot flooded the car's interior accentuating his pallor and the dark circles ringing his eyes. "You have one of two choices—you can either come home with me or I can stay here with you. Since I've already got an overnight bag with me anyway, it would be easier to just stay here, not to mention, you're likelier to be more comfortable and relax in familiar environs. Either way, it requires a stop here, so, security code, please?"

"That's not—"

"Shut it," she snapped, cutting him off before he could fully form the protest. "I'm not leaving you alone to crawl into your cave and lick your wounds in private."

Predictably, his brows drew together, although not without a slight wince. "You don't need to babysit me, Karen. Besides, you've been away and have your own family to get back to."

"Iris is with her father this weekend."

Her words fell into a sudden pool of silence, his eyes widening as he absorbed them, the implication clearly registering, even in his currently fuzzy state. She'd been well aware she would have to explain at some point. He was too smart and even with a concussion, too aware to _not_ question why she was so willing to devote so much time tending to him.

Never mind Karen wasn't sure herself why she _was_ so willing to devote the time—at least the sheer amount of time she was committing herself to. There was no reason she couldn't check on him without actually staying with him. But something was compelling her to stay—to use her authority to unfair advantage because she knew the man well enough to know he wouldn't follow Doctor Nowitzki's orders as closely as he should. Oh, he'd try. He'd skirt the edges and do just enough so that he wouldn't have to lie if asked. But ultimately, he'd push himself and find ways to fake it and insist he was fine and as a result, potentially endanger himself further.

After all, it's what she would've done in his place, once upon a time.

And further down, where she didn't like to shine the light of examination too closely, she acknowledged that it pissed her off, the possibility he might feel as if he _had_ to.

Slowly he nodded his head, his teeth embedded in his lower lip. "Well," he finally said. "Well, then."

Suddenly, those intensely blue eyes seemed a whole lot sharper and a _whole _lot more aware. He knew—even though he didn't really know. Or rather, didn't really understand. Which meant, of course, she was well and truly in it now. Tightening her hands around the steering wheel she quietly said, "Agree to cooperate and I'll tell you anything you want to know."

A heavy pause filled the car's interior.

"Even if you don't want to?"

Karen stared at her knuckles, lit white by the security light, at the dull gleam of the lie resting on her left hand. Releasing a slow breath she quietly replied, "You know, I think I kind of do."

"Yeah, but to me?" The disbelief was clearly palpable and something about that also pissed her off. It registered in a brief flash, how much time tonight she'd spent pissed off on her head detective's behalf. Another realization best stored way down in that dark, let's-not-look-at-this-too-closely place.

There was, however, one realization she was willing to share. "Strangely enough, Carlton, you're the one person I think might understand."

The gleam of oncoming headlights filled the car's interior as another vehicle pulled up behind them, waiting their turn to enter the garage.

"Six-nine-two-two-zero-two."

"Your birthday, Carlton?" She shot him a quick glance before reaching out the window to tap in the code. "You know better."

"My own mother forgets my birthday. I figured it was a safe bet no one else would ever get it."

Without a word, she tightened her hands around the steering wheel once more as she pulled slowly forward and turned left in the direction Carlton indicated, maneuvering into one of the two spaces marked '536.'

After collecting her bag and their weapons from the trunk, they silently rode the elevator to the fifth floor. Karen hadn't been here since the painting/housewarming party and couldn't help but admit to a more than passing curiosity as to what the condo would look like in a settled state.

As he ushered her through the door and turned on the light, she inhaled a quiet, surprised breath. No sign of the Crime Wall—no sign of the former crime scene the condo had been either. Just simple, elegant décor—much like she would have expected from him—and surprisingly… welcoming.

"It's lovely, Carlton."

"It's home." He closed the door and locked it behind them, a sign, however subtle, that he'd accepted her presence, at least for this evening.

Now that they were finally inside, however, it was obvious his uncertainty and confusion were rising once more to the surface, battling with the exhaustion and leaving him swaying on his feet. No idea what to do—how to move forward.

"Why don't you go take a shower while I make us something to eat?" she suggested. "It's been a hell of a long day for both of us and I don't know about you, but I'm starving."

He blinked slowly, something about the gesture leaving him looking like a lost boy and prompting Karen to gently push him in the direction of his room.

"Go on now. I promise, I won't set your kitchen on fire."

With a quizzical backward glance, he walked slowly through the living room and down the hall, weaving only a bit, she was relieved to note. After his bedroom door had closed behind him, she made her way into the kitchen and began poking around. Quick and simple was probably best for tonight, she figured. Comforting would be good as well. Pity she didn't have time nor the ingredients to make mac and cheese. Perhaps tomorrow—if he didn't kick her out in a fit of Lassiteritis.

Actually—the hell he would.

She pulled butter and two different kinds of sliced cheese from the surprisingly well-stocked refrigerator and turned to poke around in the pantry, unearthing bread and cartons of soup.

Why?

Why was she so determined to help him? To force him into _allowing_ her to help?

Sure, there was natural concern for a colleague and subordinate for whom she felt a measure of responsibility, but at the same time she had to face facts. Fact One: that concern was part of it, but it sure as hell wasn't the whole of it. Fact Two: it wasn't even the majority, if she was completely honest. So while she wasn't all that hot to delve too deep into examining what was motivating her, at the same time, she'd never before shied away from the hard things—and she sure as hell wasn't going to start now.

Which brought her to Fact Three—

"Smells good."

She glanced over her shoulder to find him hovering in the doorway, wearing flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt, his hair damp and messy in a way that made her shove Fact Three way down.

No need to be examining it right now. No sir.

"It's just grilled cheese and tomato soup—my favorite when I feel like crap."

A surprising half-smile brightened his face and momentarily wiped away the tiredness. "Mine too."

Entering the kitchen, he gathered up silverware and napkins, then opened the refrigerator. "I suppose a beer is out of the question?" he asked with a sigh.

"You know it is, Carlton." Karen carried bowls of soup out to the dining table before returning for the sandwiches. A moment later, Carlton followed with the silverware, napkins, and two glasses of milk, a box of Ritz crackers tucked under one arm and a bag of Oreos clenched between his teeth.

Laughing slightly, Karen rescued the milk and cookies, placing them on the table, while Carlton settled himself in a chair with a mildly defiant air.

"If we're going to go childhood comfort food, then we're going whole hog, by God."

"You won't hear me arguing," Karen responded with a grin as she sat to his left. "I love Oreos and for the record, I strongly feel Ritz are the only crackers one should ever crumble into tomato soup."

"Damned straight," he retorted, ripping open a fresh sleeve of crackers and offering her a handful. For several minutes they ate silently, leading her to believe that maybe, just maybe, he was too tired. Maybe he'd even forgotten. Concussions could do that to people—affect the short-term memory.

But…

No. She knew better, dammit.

And again, forcing herself to be honest, she wanted him to remember. Wanted him to ask.

She could feel his gaze occasionally resting on her—on the rare occasions she allowed herself to look up could clearly read the curiosity reflected in them—but it wasn't until he'd refilled their glasses with more cold milk and they'd broken into the cookies that he finally said anything.

"So, Iris is with her father this weekend?"

Idly, she twisted a cookie apart, scraping away the filling before dipping one of the cookie halves into her milk. As she bit into it, she met his gaze and slowly nodded. After finishing the cookie, she folded her hands together on the placemat.

"Same as she's done every other weekend for the past year."

She might have expected a gasp or some sort of exclamation of surprise, but as he had a way of doing, Carlton surprised her, remaining silent, his mouth set into that firm line she recognized as a sign he was thinking. She sighed. He was going back over the past year in his head, trying to see if there was anything he'd missed—some sign, something, _anything_, that would keep this from coming as such a surprise. Because a _year_?

She knew he'd even call his own abilities into question, that he hadn't noticed.

"I didn't want anyone to know."

"Obviously." His glance flickered over her left hand, one eyebrow rising slightly.

Her cheeks warming she said, "It's complicated."

The eyebrow inched upward, accompanied by a slight wince. "I've got time," he replied with a familiar welcome edge to his voice. "Since my boss has given me strict orders not to do a damned thing."

"Quit whining, you big baby."

"I am not whining."

"You are."

"I," he said with a fair amount of injured dignity considering he was wearing plaid flannel and a SBPD t-shirt, "am merely voicing the obvious."

"And whining." She rose and collected the plates and bowls.

"Am not." A definite whine colored his voice.

"Listen, do you want to hear this story or not?"

As she set the dishes in the sink, she felt a touch to her arm. Turning, she found him standing behind her, regarding her steadily.

"You don't have to, you know. If you don't want."

Despite the boyish façade of plaid flannel and messy hair and stray cookie crumbs clinging to one corner of his normally stern mouth, she saw the concern of the man she knew existed, yet so rarely saw.

The quiet man.

The man who would listen.

She took a deep breath. "I'd like to." She paused and considered how tired he looked—what he'd already been through today, and mentally berated herself for being a selfish bitch of the highest order. "But seriously, only if you're up for it."

His eyes darkened, turning an almost slate blue, making her think he was going to say no.

"I—" He turned away from her and propped his hands on the counter, staring down at the granite surface. "I'm not ready to go to sleep yet," he admitted in a voice that caused the tiny hairs on the back of Karen's neck to rise.

"Carlton—"

Turning his head slightly, he met her gaze and smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Long story."

Instinctively, she put her hand on his shoulder and slowly drew it down his back, mindful of the soreness she knew had to be holding his muscles hostage.

"I've got time."


	4. Chapter 4

**Safety in Numbers**

Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in **psych**_**, **_not even a grain of sand in the playground. TPTB own everything, I own nothing, no infringement intended, just having some fun playing "What if…"

**AN:** Fair warning: while the events of the S6 finale (that just aired in the U.S.) will not figure in this chapter, they will definitely come into play at some point in this story.

* * *

><p>Carlton watched Karen, head bent as she toyed with the edges of the throw pillow she held in her lap. So goddamned familiar, the story she'd been sharing. The slow but certain drifting apart. The not understanding the commitment to a job that meant so damned much—that defined so much. The resentment that gradually built when that job sometimes had to take precedence.<p>

Until one day, you woke up and found yourself living with a complete stranger.

The only real difference was that for Karen and her husband, there hadn't been any vicious fighting and sniping. No crying and screaming, no threats and accusations. No missed opportunities or confusion because they hadn't really known each other to begin with and maybe shouldn't have ever been together in the first place.

From everything Karen had said, theirs had been quiet—civilized. Two people who'd been perfect together at one time, yet over time, had become different people. People who were no longer so perfect together.

He understood all that.

There was only one thing he really didn't understand.

"So why the secrecy, Karen?"

The edges of her mouth twitched in a small smile as she sighed and shifted on the sofa, stretching her legs along its length, her sock-clad feet nearly brushing his leg. Before they'd settled in at opposite ends of the sofa for True Confessions Time, he'd insisted she make herself comfortable. acknowledging she was there for however long she deemed fit and he didn't have a damned thing to say about it. Yet at the same time, as he'd shown her to the guest bedroom and bath, made certain she had all she needed, he'd been all too aware he wasn't the only one wandering way the hell past his usual comfort zone.

Karen Vick was an excellent Chief of Police—lapses in judgment for hiring that idiot Spencer aside—and an even better boss. And it wasn't even a grudging acknowledgment. At least, not anymore. After six years he respected her ability to know when to step in and when to maintain distance, trusting that the people under her command had the sense God gave a cabbage, the latter a trait he heartily approved of. Tonight, however…

Tonight, circumstances had forced both of them to stray from their usual roles.

Sure, it was weird—but not as weird as how… okay he felt with it.

How okay, after all this time of fending for himself—a lifetime, really—it felt to have someone looking out for him.

How okay it felt to sit with her as she lay stretched along his couch, hair damp from her own shower, wearing loose-fitting pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt and absurdly thick purple wool socks that had him raising his eyebrows and her confiding that her feet got abysmally cold at night.

Karen had made that confession—not Chief Vick. A woman he realized he didn't know at all and whom he wouldn't have ever known if it hadn't been for the stupid case and the stupid car accident and his own stupid stubbornness and he couldn't deny that right now—right in this moment—he was glad for all of it and _that_ made no damned sense at all.

If he thought about it too hard, though, it made his head hurt even more. Tomorrow. Tomorrow maybe he could think about it.

Tonight he'd just go with it.

"Why didn't I tell anyone I'd gotten divorced?"

He nodded, expecting a response along the lines of "because it was no one's goddamned business," an attitude to which he could easily relate. But still, to maintain that silence for an entire _year_?

"Because it was easier."

Okay. Unexpected. "How so?"

She shrugged. "I'm a woman in a position of authority in a male-dominated field. If I'm perceived as taken—" her fingers made air quotes, "then I don't get as many stares and whispers and inappropriate suggestions and propositions on how I can further my career."

"The _hell_?" She'd been propositioned? Someone was actually stupid enough to think that would work? And while he was admittedly clumsy with politics, he wasn't naïve. He was well aware the same assholes who would think it acceptable to proposition a woman in power also wouldn't hesitate to drag that same woman's name through the mud. His head throbbed painfully as his muscles tensed. "Who?"

"Relax, Carlton—no need to clean the Glock." Her eyes, as she regarded him from her end of the sofa, were dark with a healthy dose of the wry humor he recognized as well as a warmth with which he wasn't as familiar, yet somehow still knew. "It's just the usual old school blowhards who can't conceive of a woman actually earning a job like mine on merit rather than on my back."

He bit back a snarl. "How could anyone think that of you?"

"Comes with the territory," she responded easily, like she was used to it and dammit, she _shouldn't _ be used to it. "But it's an attitude that's definitely lessened if they think you're taken. Plus has the added benefit of keeping the wives—both of the politicians and the officers under my command with whom I sometimes spend more time than their wives do—from treating me like Typhoid Mary."

The long hours, the stakeouts, the all-nighters, the occasional undercover work, the danger that brought with it adrenaline and heightened emotion— All of it took on an entirely new spin when viewed from her perspective. A perspective of which he couldn't have even begun to conceive if not for this conversation. "God, Karen—I had no idea it was so hard."

"Good." She hugged the throw pillow close. "I never wanted anyone to think it was hard beyond the normal demands of the job. At the end of the day, I'm a cop, same as you, Carlton."

He shifted, turning to face her more fully. The movement caused his thigh and knee to bump her foot as he adjusted and made her draw her leg up slightly until he settled, leaving her enough room to fully stretch again. He didn't miss the sigh that escaped as she relaxed more fully into the sofa's cushions or the satisfied smile and just like that, the unexpected arousal he'd experienced in the hospital reappeared, sharp and strong and almost staggering in its intensity.

Arousal he had no business feeling, especially in the wake of what she'd just confided.

It had to be because of the blow to the head. Had to be.

And the fact that outside of that brief, interrupted interlude with Marlowe, it had been a long time.

He shifted restlessly.

Too long.

Not because rather than Chief Vick, all business and sober attitude, it was Karen, in purple wool socks with softly waving blonde hair and large, warm brown eyes, stretched across his sofa, her foot inadvertently nudging his thigh. It _was_ inadvertent, wasn't it?

It wasn't. As she deliberately poked his leg again, a slow grin he could only describe as mischievous crossed her face and left him shifting again, discreetly pulling a throw pillow over his lap.

"You know, there has been an unexpected side benefit to not disclosing my current marital status."

"What's that?" And congratulated himself on not sounding as strangled as he felt.

"It keeps Woody's inappropriate propositions down to a minimum."

Oh, for crap's _sake_—

"Maybe I should tell him I'm married, too, then."

A brief moment of silence greeted his dry retort, before her smile erupted into a full out laugh, drawing one from him in response and even though dear God, every muscle in his body hurt, it still felt really, really good and had the unexpected side benefit of subduing the surprising attraction he was feeling toward Karen.

_Chief Vick_, he hastily amended. His _boss_.

_Not right now, she's not_.

_Forget it. She wouldn't even be here if she wasn't your boss—she took on your sorry ass because she felt a responsibility_.

Better than a cold bucket of water, that. That was, until she nudged his thigh again.

"Hey."

He blinked, hoping like hell his folded hands holding the pillow firmly in place looked casual and less like, "Oh dear God, please don't let anything slip."

"Your turn."

"For what?"

She tilted her head and hit him with an all-too-familiar narrow stare. "For your story."

As he shook his head, trying to fight off the faint nausea the motion produced, she sat up, folding her legs beneath her.

"Oh, no you don't."

"I was willing to let you slide," he argued.

"I'm not that nice." She crossed her arms, but the expression in her eyes revealed concern. Again, not an expression with which he was completely unfamiliar—even directed at him. Salamatchia, for example. She'd been so damned determined to keep him from being a victim of his own stubbornness and pride.

Not so dissimilar to his current situation.

"Why are you afraid to sleep, Carlton?" She bit her lip, then asked, "Is it… you know?" Her all-encompassing glance took in their surroundings.

Right. He sighed. She'd asked in the aftermath of his drug-induced rampage if he needed her to sign off on another round with the department shrink, an inquiry to which he'd responded in typically scathing fashion. Of course she'd wonder if that was at the root of his reluctance to sleep, no matter how very much his body screamed he needed the rest, and what in the hell had prompted him to even say anything in the first place?

Blow to the head, dammit. He had to keep reminding himself of that and had to be more vigilant. But he knew, sliding a sidelong glance her direction, that Karen wouldn't let this go. And hell, she'd revealed her secret—fairly readily at that. His was nothing by comparison. Even if it was stupid.

"Dammit, I'm sorry—I'm not your boss here. I need to remember that."

Carlton looked at his hand wrapped around her wrist, stopping her from rising from the sofa, the mug from which she'd drunk tea after her shower clutched in her free hand. Her gaze locked with his, she carefully placed the mug back on the coffee table and resumed her seat—a little closer , close enough that her knee now nudged his thigh, warmth from her body radiating along his entire side.

Slowly, he released his hold on her wrist, oddly reluctant to do so.

"It was… terrifying, Karen."

Her voice was extraordinarily gentle. "What was?"

"Those few seconds or however long it was." He swallowed hard, ran his tongue across suddenly dry lips as his stomach clenched at the recollection of the free-falling sensation abruptly halted by sheer and utter blackness. "When there was… nothing."

Quick sharp breaths knifed through his chest—a painful sensation he welcomed because it meant he was still here, dammit. Still _here. _Even if it meant he had to face up to his greatest fear. "Death is something we potentially face on a daily basis," he said slowly, his gaze resolutely focused on the oak floor. "I get that. I'm even… okay with it. I just—"

The breath caught in his throat, trapped, like he'd been for those few, horrifying seconds, black spots floating in his vision and blending the loops and whorls of the wood grain into an indistinct mass, dark and menacing. His heart pounded with painful intensity against his rib cage.

"Stay with me, Carlton—I'm right here."

Slowly, his vision cleared, the focus returning, the strength of Karen's hand over his serving as an anchor to reality.

A long, shuddering breath escaped as his surroundings sharpened and _he_ once again felt real. Was finally able to put into words everything he'd felt in those brief, terrifying moments. "I just… I don't want there to be nothing, Karen."

Half fearful of what he'd see, Carlton nevertheless looked up and met her gaze and found in the dark brown depths understanding and maybe even a little fear and it was the latter that brought him fully back to earth.

God, but he was an _ass_. This was _his_ nightmare. Last thing he wanted to do was scare her. She had a child—a smart child, no doubt, given that she was Karen Vick's daughter. It wasn't beyond the pale to imagine that at some point, if she hadn't already, Iris would ask what lay beyond and here he was, saying he'd experienced nothing and even if he had been far from dead, it had been close enough to scare the hell out of _him_—

No doubt about it—complete and utter _ass_.

Unforgivable.

Didn't mean he wouldn't try to make amends, though.

Yet as he started to open his mouth to apologize. he found he couldn't.

For the very simple reason that Karen Vick's mouth was suddenly on his—gentle, firm, and oh, so damned _real_.


	5. Chapter 5

**Safety in Numbers**

Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in **psych**_**, **_not even a grain of sand in the playground. TPTB own everything, I own nothing, no infringement intended, just having some fun playing "What if…"

**AN:** I know, I know... it's been many days. I'm sorry. RL and all that. And I know this is short. Sorry for that, too. But I promise—there will be more very, very soon. Maybe even later today.

* * *

><p><em>You… you just… me… <em>Why_?_

_Because I wanted to._

_I… but… _Why_?_

_Why not?_

_Well… you know… because—_

_Don't. Don't overthink this. For right now, it doesn't have to be anything more than a moment. One I hope felt good._

_What—? Y-yes. _Yes. _Of course it did._

_So we're in agreement—a moment that felt good. Nothing more, nothing less. Now—why don't you try to get some rest?_

_Karen—_

_Shh… it'll be okay. I'll be right here when you wake up. I promise._

* * *

><p>She'd expected more of a battle, frankly. But despite the momentary adrenaline brought on by her unexpected kiss, the day's physical and emotional tolls had finally caught up to him, leaving him blinking slowly, his eyes dimming to an almost translucent blue-gray, even as he'd lied through his teeth, saying he wasn't tired yet. Something about her reassurances, though—her promise she would be there when he woke up—seemed to break down the last of his defenses. His eyes had drifted shut as she'd urged him to lie down, slipping from the sofa so he had room to stretch along its length. True Carlton to the end, he <em>had<em> grumbled slightly, eyes opening for a brief moment, but after another whispered assurance from her, he relaxed again, sighing as she slipped a pillow beneath his head.

Hoping to give him time to slip into a deeper sleep she'd gone into the kitchen and quietly cleaned up the remains of their dinner. Now she sat on the floor beside the sofa, studying his sleeping features as she meditatively sipped another cup of tea, this one laced with a liberal shot of the Jameson's she'd discovered lurking in a top cabinet. She wondered how many people had ever actually seen Carlton Lassiter sleeping? She suspected precious few, including his ex-wife. She knew his type—working late, probably coming to bed long after she'd given up asking wasn't he _done_ yet and rising before the sun, in order to get a jump on the day and catching the next in a never ending parade of criminal scumbags.

Not that she'd know a thing about that. Not at _all_.

Sighing, she took in the features that were as relaxed as she'd ever seen them, the lines smoothed out, the shadows beneath his eyes obscured somewhat by the fan of dark lashes. With a light touch she ran her hand along his hair, noting its softness and the slight bends and waves that hinted at the curls and cowlicks that would emerge if he didn't keep it strictly in line.

Everything about Carlton Lassiter was strictly in line—except for one thing—and it was kind of a doozy, really.

Another sigh escaped. The man was involved in a relationship. With a woman serving time in a state penitentiary for theft as well as aiding and abetting. Admittedly, she'd committed the criminal acts in order to help her sick brother, so it wasn't as if she was some hardened criminal, but still—the idea that by-the-book Carlton Lassiter would unbend enough to pursue a relationship with someone like Marlowe Viccellio was nothing short of mind-boggling and served to show just how far he'd come.

The nasty, sharp pitchfork of conscience pricked Karen with its stabby little tines, making her sigh again, because she was avoiding thinking about the real issue.

The man was involved in a relationship and she'd kissed him. The man was involved in a relationship and despite that, she'd really, really _wanted_ to kiss him. And so she had.

The real kicker, however, was that he'd kissed her back. A fact likely to torture this intensely loyal, by-the-book man once he woke up and remembered.

Of course, it was possible he wouldn't remember. Might think it was all just some sort of surreal dream. What with the concussion and all.

And she'd be damned if she knew which was the preferable alternative.


	6. Chapter 6

**Safety in Numbers**

Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in **psych**_**, **_not even a grain of sand in the playground. TPTB own everything, I own nothing, no infringement intended, just having some fun playing "What if…"

**AN: **A bit longer this time. Hope it makes up for the brevity of the previous chapter.

* * *

><p>"Carlton Lassiter, as I live and breathe. So what manner of injury has you darkening my doorstep, since I know it can't possibly be you voluntarily showing up for your yearly physical."<p>

"Really, Gibson, you ever think about taking this show on the road? I'm sure it would bomb spectacularly."

Carlton knew his acerbic tone would have absolutely no effect on the doctor. Never did. Problem with having a physician one had known since freshman orientation. His first mistake. But while Riley Gibson was as cheerful as Carlton was taciturn, they shared a similar dry sense of humor and cynical worldview and for some damned reason, had clicked during that miserable excuse for a freshman mixer. Probably because of their shared opinion of their residential advisor being a pompous Ivy League-wannabe jackwad, with his navy blazer and an ascot, for God's sake. Who the hell wore an ascot in California? Besides Hugh Hefner, maybe. After about five minutes that topic of conversation had been exhausted and their conversation had veered toward the usual, "Where you from?" and "What's your major? and "Whaddaya wanna do with your life?" and they'd discovered another commonality in their desire to take care of people, albeit from different ends of the spectrum. And a bond had been forged that had lasted from that first freshman mixer to now. A bond he was halfway regretting considering the hairy eyeball Gibson was currently laying on him as he skimmed the chart his nurse had handed him.

"Carlton, what in the hell were you thinking? You didn't receive medical attention until nearly ten hours after the fact? Who the hell dropped the ball on this?"

"The idiot insisted on working."

Carlton sighed as Gib took notice of the acidic retort, his eyebrows rising.

"That's a given, usually. Both the idiocy and the insistence." He set the chart on the table and extended a hand. "And you would be?"

"Karen Vick."

"His boss." Gib's genial face settled into the good-natured grin that usually spelled trouble for Carlton. "Oh, I've heard a lot about you, Chief Vick."

Carlton cringed inwardly as Karen's narrow gaze slid his direction for a brief moment before settling back on Gib. _That_ gaze suggested they'd be talking later and he wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Hell, who was he kidding? He knew how he felt. Also knew how he should be feeling and the fact that Option One and Option Two were diametrically opposed should have sent up a goddamned warning flare.

It really didn't.

She could lecture him from here to next Thursday and he wouldn't mind, because it meant they'd be spending more time together. And the more time they spent together, maybe he'd be able to figure out why she'd kissed him. Maybe he'd be able to figure out why he'd enjoyed it so damned much.

Seriously, _who_ was he kidding? Carlton knew why he'd enjoyed it. He would've had to have been dead to not enjoy it and despite the close call, definitely _not_ dead. Karen Vick had managed to prove that with a simple caress that had lingered long beyond its actual duration. He just couldn't figure out why she'd done it at all and _that's _what was driving him nuts.

Quietly nuts, at least. Saturday and Sunday had passed smoothly, the two of them cocooned within in an oddly soothing calm as she continued to keep him company but hadn't hovered, hadn't nagged, hadn't done anything other than read, run home for fresh clothes, and after a trip to the Farmer's Market he'd enjoyed more than he thought he would, had puttered in his kitchen, claiming it relaxed her.

She hadn't brought the kiss up at all, behaving as if nothing was amiss and he'd been too chickenshit to bring it up at all, just in case it had all been a dream. Except…

There _had_ been a moment—just one—the day before. Nothing much, really—could've even been put down to imagination or his scrambled brain except by Sunday, his head had been reasonably clear. At least enough to recognize… whatever it was. That fleeting brush of her hand against his as she'd cleared the table after dinner—homemade mac and cheese the likes of which he'd never had before, the likes of which no one had ever _cared_ enough to make for him before—coupled with a glance he'd felt all the way down to his bones. That made it damned difficult to sleep and as a result left him more irritable than usual this morning, biting back a snarl as Gib leaned forward to take Karen's hand.

"Karen," she clarified with a smile that Gib returned with one Carlton knew too damned well.

God_dammit_.

Another thing he and Gib had in common—insane workaholic tendencies that had cost them a marriage each. Difference was, Gib had made a point of creating a social life when time allowed. And as far as Carlton knew, the good doctor wasn't currently involved with anyone—unlike Carlton.

Crap.

Marlowe.

Double crap.

Sad truth was, the only times Marlowe—his _girlfriend_, the woman he allegedly loved—had invaded his thoughts in the previous three days was in the form of nasty reminders that that was a situation that would need to be resolved before anything else could happen with Karen.

Provided Karen wanted something else to happen.

Provided _he _wanted something else to happen.

He watched as Gib held Karen's hand an instant longer than was professionally polite and shot a subtle glance toward her left hand. Startled, Carlton realized the telltale finger was bare. She'd chosen today to stop wearing her damned ring? First off, why? And secondly, really? _Really_? Hadn't she realized it would be like waving a red cape in front of a bull disguised as an innocuous white-coated doctor? It was all he could do to not lunge from the damned exam table and insert himself between them.

Well then.

Guess that answered the question of whether or not he wanted something to happen.

"Gibson, don't you have a diagnosis or something to give?" he growled. "I'm aging, here."

Releasing Karen's hand, Gib retrieved Carlton's file and made a show of leafing through it.

"You are due for a tetanus booster." One side of his mouth twitched slightly. "As well as distemper."

Carlton ignored the giggle Karen couldn't manage to smother behind a cough.

"Really freakin' hilarious, Gib. You know, if I want this kind of abuse, I can just go to work and deal with the two Village Idiots who insist on making my life hell."

"Well, now, let's see about making that happen." Setting aside the chart, Gib drew a slim flashlight from his pocket, the humor replaced with professionalism laced with a healthy dose of concern, one friend, for another. For that reason alone, Carlton remained still and answered Gib's questions with only a minimum of snark, deferring to Karen when he needed reinforcement or simply didn't remember.

"I've got good news and bad news."

Carlton eyed Gib warily as he finished making some notations in his chart and slipped the pen into the breast pocket of his white coat. Crossing his arms, he propped himself against the counter lining the wall.

"Which one do you want first?"

"Which one will piss me off less?"

"Your concussion symptoms have definitely improved."

Immediately, Carlton began rolling down the sleeves of his dress shirt and reached for the suit jacket draped across the end of the exam table.

"Whoa, there, cowboy, not so fast."

Carlton paused in the act of buttoning his cuffs, his brows drawing together. Almost as if on cue, a sharp stabbing pain shot through his head, a sudden reminder he hadn't been this grouchy all weekend. Hadn't had reason to be this grouchy. Leave it to Gib to harsh his buzz.

"I said they're improved, which is good, but Carlton, you presented symptoms of a IIIa MTBI."

"This is where we get to the bad news, right?" Carlton tossed his jacket back to the end of the table with a resigned sigh. He _so_ wasn't going to like this, was he?

"'Fraid so." To his credit, Gibson did look sorry. "I can't, in good conscience, approve you for a return to the field. In fact, I'm going to recommend at least another three days off and then at least another week riding a desk."

"Dammit, Gibson, that's nearly two weeks," Carlton snapped, his head pounding as he immediately began envisioning the havoc Spencer and Guster could wreak in nearly two weeks of running amok with no supervision. Once upon a time he might have been able to rely on O'Hara to keep them in line, but those days were long gone. The most she could muster was an eye roll that had absolutely no effect on that pinhead she insisted on dating.

"Look, let me at least ride a desk now. I can do that."

Gib shook his head, saying, "No can do."

Carlton turned toward Karen, hoping her authority could trump Gibson's, but no dice, as she met his imploring gaze with a slow shake of her head and while she was smiling, her brows were drawn together with that expression that looked suspiciously like concern.

"I agree with Dr. Gibson, Carlton—I think you should take a few extra days off. God knows you've got enough sick time accrued and I'd rather have you back with a clean bill of health."

"Oh, come _on_. This is completely bogus—at least the time off is."

Just then the door to the room opened and one of Gib's nurses entered, wielding what looked like, to Carlton's horrified gaze, the world's largest syringe.

"Not really," Gib replied with a smile that was downright evil. "In fact, I suspect you'll thank me."

"Yeah, why's that?"

"Because you're gonna feel like hammered shit after getting your tetanus booster."

As the nurse hit him with a pointed glare, Carlton sighed again and began unbuttoning his shirt as Gibson laughed.

"Be grateful it's your deltoid and not your ass, big guy."

"Detective, I'll wait out in reception. Give you some privacy."

Detective? She hadn't called him that since the ER. Startled, Carlton glanced up to see Karen slipping from the room, her eyes dark and nearly unreadable as she shot a quick glance over her shoulder.

Nearly unreadable.

The part he _could_ read left him damned grateful he didn't have to drop trou because he would have been monumentally humiliated. Especially with Gibson still leaning against that damned counter, arms crossed, the gaze that didn't miss a damned thing focused squarely on him.

"What happened with Marlowe?" he asked softly as Carlton slipped his left arm from his shirt and presented it to the nurse

Carlton flinched. Whether it was because the nurse chose that moment to administer the shot or because of the question, he wasn't sure. Probably both. Probably mostly the question.

"If you had asked me on Friday, I would've said nothing," he admitted as the nurse closed the door behind herself. With hands that shook only a little, he began refastening his shirt.

"_But_—"

"But on Friday, I got into this damned accident, my partner deserts me, and my boss decides for reasons known only to her that I'm all of a sudden her responsibility."

"Thank God she did," Gib interjected. "This could've been bad, Carlton. Really goddamned bad."

"So she made a point of insisting as she dragged me to the ER and babysat me all weekend."

"And things changed," Gib guessed.

Carlton nodded. "I'll be damned if I know what, exactly, though."

"But whatever it is, it eclipses what you have with Marlowe?"

Thank God for Gibson, Carlton thought, not for the first time. No judgment, no censure, just a scientist's curiosity to break things down to their most basic components.

He nodded. "Yeah, and I can't even begin to tell you how that happened. For one thing, she's my boss and I never imagined she'd—and who knows what the hell she's thinking, but God, Gib, she's been amazing and so different from the woman I thought I knew… and you know, I would never intentionally hurt Marlowe—"

"Of course you wouldn't, you jackass." Gibson interrupted Carlton's babbling, accompanying his blunt words with an eloquent eye roll. "But if I may speak freely?"

"Whether I said you could or not, would that stop you?"

"Nope." Gib grinned—the same unapologetic, shit-eating grin that had led the more reserved Carlton on too many adventures he _should_ regret, but honestly, didn't.

Carlton slid from the exam table. "So what is it?"

"You know, from everything you've said about Marlowe, she sounds like a great girl—for a convicted felon."

"Gibson—"Carlton started to warn, but stopped at Gib's upraised hand.

"Relax, Carl. I get they why of it, I really do."

"So what's your point, then?" He winced as he tried to pull on his jacket, then gave it up as a lost cause. Not as if he had any reason to wear the damned suit. He half wished he'd listened to Karen's suggestion to wear something more comfortable, but _no_… he'd been so certain he'd get a clean bill of health and be comfortably ensconced in a new Crown Vic by lunchtime. Sighing, he leaned against the edge of the exam table.

"My point is, as great as Marlowe sounds, I honestly never got the sense from you that she was anything more than… safe."

"Only you would consider my dating a criminal as safe."

"She is," Gib insisted, his gaze narrow and intent. "Yeah, you were instantly attracted to her, but the timing for her appearance in your life was also perfect. You were reeling from finding out about Juliet's relationship with that idiot psychic —your trust in a relationship in which you'd invested more emotionally than you did even in your marriage had been shattered. And Marlowe comes along and she's beautiful and interested and wounded and knows Clint's movies like no one's business. There's not a man alive who wouldn't fall."

"Seriously, do you have a point?"

Gib took a deep breath. "If things had progressed naturally—if Marlowe had been just another girl—I think you still might have fallen for her. But—and here's my point—if your relationship had been allowed a normal progression, I think you both would've enjoyed each other, had a great time, but it would've run its eventual course and come to a natural end."

He paused while Carlton digested his words, resuming again at his curt nod. "Because of her unfortunate incarceration, however, it's put you two in something of a state of suspended animation." Gib shrugged. "She's a damsel in distress and she looked to you to be her knight in shining armor and again, not many men who can resist that lure. And the hard truth is a committed relationship with Marlowe has meant you can be together, without really being together. None of the demands of day-to-day interaction, the friction of having to learn how to function with another person in your life, the inevitable squabbles that lead to disappointment when your illusion of that person as perfect is marred. In prison, behind that bulletproof glass, Marlowe is—"

"Safe," Carlton finished with a resigned sigh. "I really thought I loved her," he added quietly.

"I know." After a few moments Gib asked, "So—Karen Vick?"

"_Not_ safe." Carlton stared down at the polished black toes of his shoes.

"Damn, son, you don't have to tell me that and that's not even taking into consideration she's your boss. But—" At Gibson's pause, Carlton looked up. "Is she worth the risk?"

Carlton couldn't answer.

Not that he needed to. Gibson's wide grin made that perfectly clear.


	7. Chapter 7

**Safety in Numbers**

Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in **psych**_**, **_not even a grain of sand in the playground. TPTB own everything, I own nothing, no infringement intended, just having some fun playing "What if…"

**AN: ** The chapter many of you have asked for. Hope it doesn't disappoint. Also because so many of you have mentioned him so favorably, yes, Dr. Gibson will be appearing in a later chapter.

* * *

><p>The game, as dear old Sherlock would say, was definitely afoot.<p>

Cradling a cup of coffee, Karen leaned back in her chair and stared out the window.

He remembered their kiss. She'd wondered, because by God, the man was good at internalizing, but then, the night before, she'd inadvertently brushed his hand as they'd cleared the table and his gaze, as it had met hers, had deepened to an intense, brilliant blue, and she _knew_.

Then today, in Dr. Gibson's office, when the good doctor had held her hand an instant too long and made a less-than-subtle show of checking for a ring, Carlton had looked downright murderous and she _knew_—not only did he remember, he wanted more.

As for her—dear _God_, but she'd felt that searing blue gaze more intensely than the touch of Dr. Gibson's hand on hers. Far as she was concerned, the other man could've been a piece of furniture. Still, she'd managed to hold it together in a more or less professional manner until the moment that damned nurse had come in and directed him to take off his shirt and the sight of those long-fingered hands working at the buttons had sent her long-deprived libido into overdrive, especially after he'd sent another one of those penetrating blue glances her way. She'd had to get out—right then—or risk embarrassing Carlton, herself, and irrevocably damaging the reputation of the Santa Barbara Police Department.

To say she was shaken by this sudden awareness of Carlton as… _more_, would be understating it. From the moment she'd seen him Friday evening she'd been operating purely on instinct rather than the logic on which she'd long depended and clearly, instinct had very definite ideas about what it wanted.

It wanted Carlton Lassiter.

Next move, however, would absolutely have to be his. Instinct or no, she'd already crossed a personal boundary in giving in to the impulse to kiss him, knowing what she knew. In all honesty, too, she needed some time—not so much to figure out why she'd done it, but more to figure out why she'd even _felt_ the impulse. She'd seen the man day in and day out for years and never once considered him to be more than Carlton Lassiter, Head Detective and inveterate pain in the ass.

_Liar_.

Okay, fine. He was a man with honor and strong principles, traits she admired. A deeply feeling man, although he fought so hard to keep that side of himself masked. But every now and again, the mask would slip, revealing the helpless anger at his inability to right every wrong and deeper still, the soul wounded by what he perceived as his failures—whether they actually were or not. Karen couldn't deny how those rare glimpses always resonated with her own carefully hidden emotional side and had a way of shifting her equally deep-rooted protective streak into high gear. He would die to protect the innocent, she knew, but who protected him?

_Annnnd—?_

Okay, _fine_. Carlton Lassiter was an attractive man, albeit in a somewhat unconventional way, and she was human and in her sexual prime, dammit.

Still, though, despite her changed circumstances she'd kept things strictly professional between them. She had to. For one thing, she was still his boss and there were a whole host of reasons she should keep the lines firmly drawn between them, not the least of which were the facts that a) he'd never once indicated he saw her in any light other than professional and b) oh, yeah, he was already involved with someone else.

And then Friday happened. Seeing him—lit by the small pool of lamplight, yet otherwise surrounded by darkness, weary and in pain and just so damned… defeated—it hadn't just tugged at her heart, it had broken the blasted thing wide open and from that moment, she'd been pretty much gone.

Yes, she was his boss and it could possibly spell professional suicide for both of them, but she was also a woman and he was a man that she all of a sudden wanted very, very much. And at least with Carlton, she didn't have to wonder whether or not he was a man worth risking so much for.

Should've been scary she felt that way.

Oddly enough, it wasn't.

Now, it was just a waiting game.

The sharp rap had her spinning her chair to face the door.

Ah—she'd wondered how long it would take.

"Come in."

The door eased open and O'Hara slipped through.

"Hey, Chief, have you—"

"Shut the door."

"Chief?"

"Shut the door, O'Hara." Karen calmly watched the expression on the younger woman's face shift from curiosity to outright worry. Good. "Take a seat."

Karen had faced her charges with anger plenty of times, but one of the reasons she'd moved so quickly up the ranks and excelled as Chief was an almost preternatural ability to keep that anger under control. Over the years she'd mastered it, learned how wield it like a weapon in the form of an icy tone, a scathing remark, or even a glance cutting enough to leave once-cocky officers—so certain that their female chief would be soft—scurrying away, little tails tucked between their little legs.

She suspected she was going to need every ounce of that control and mastery in order to get through the next few minutes. Even without the emergence of her feelings for Carlton, what O'Hara had done was not only irresponsible, it was stupid, and _that_ Karen would not stand for.

"Chief?"

Karen took a deep breath and willed her hands to remain loosely linked together on the blotter as she watched O'Hara settle herself. "I take it you've come to ask about Detective Lassiter's absence?"

O'Hara's brows drew together, clearly hearing the thread of steel in Karen's tone. "As a matter of fact—"

She held up a hand. "We'll get to that in a moment, Detective. First, I'd like to ask you about this case you just wrapped."

The other woman's brows drew even closer together, until they appeared to be one single unbroken blonde line. "Ex- excuse me?"

Karen indicated the file opened on her desk. "The Thane Woodson case—your case, I believe."

O'Hara nodded. "Yes—we closed it out on Friday."

"I see that. Closed out two cases as a matter of fact. Well done."

"Uh, thank you." The words rose slightly in pitch, emerging more as question than statement.

Karen used the excuse of leafing through the file she'd already read so often she practically had it memorized, to draw a steadying breath. "I do, however, have a few questions I'm hoping you can clarify."

"Of course, Chief, but—does any of this have to do with why Carlton's not here?"

Karen spared the younger woman a cool glance. "In time, Detective." Flipping past a few pages, she found the one she needed. "As I understand it, the suspect's father initiated a high-speed crash in order to free his son from your custody?"

"That's correct."

"But you and Detective Lassiter were able to regroup and eventually apprehend both men."

Once again O'Hara nodded, a faint smile crossing her face as she replied, "Yes—with Shawn's help."

"I see that." Below her desk, Karen's leg began an agitated bouncing. Discreetly, she slipped her foot from her pump so as not to make any noise.

"Now—it's noted here you suffered a sprained wrist in the crash." Karen glanced up in time to see O'Hara pause in the act of brushing a lock of hair back from her face—with an obviously bandaged hand and wrist. Her knee hit the underside of the desk with a muffled thump.

"While Detective Lassiter…"

A small smile, one Iris had informed her was "kinda evil, Mom," tugged at the corners of her mouth as she allowed her voice to trail off, watching as confusion , then worry, flitted across O'Hara's face.

"Uh—"

"Did Detective Lassiter happen to escape the accident unscathed?" She gestured at the report. "Because I see no mention of any injuries here."

"Well… he had some cuts on his face from shattered glass and he was maybe a little dizzy after, but—"

Once again, Karen cut her off. "This says you were the driver, Detective, which means Detective Lassiter was on the passenger side—" She took another breath and held up the picture of the mangled Crown Vic. "The side that suffered the brunt of what appears to have been quite a collision."

Karen sat back and watched the other woman squirm as she began to put two and two together.

"Let me ask you this, O'Hara—were you or were you not running point on this case?"

The normally vivid blue of the younger woman's eyes was dim as she quietly answered, "I was."

"Would you agree that as point, it's your responsibility to see the case through to its conclusion?"

"Yes, Chief."

"So then, can you explain to me why this report was completed by your partner?"

A faint wash of red swept over O'Hara's fair skin. "He… offered."

"Why?"

"Because…" she said slowly, staring down at her hands, "He said I should go get my wrist looked at." To the young woman's credit, the dull wash of red deepened at her quiet admission,

"I see." Karen propped her elbows on the arms of her chair and steepled her fingers beneath her chin. "And I don't suppose Mr. Spencer's typical scorn for niceties such as protocol coupled with his insatiable appetite for food played any part in your decision to leave your partner to finish _your_ work?"

A shaky breath escaped as O'Hara started to stand, clearly understanding she'd screwed up—but good.

"Sit _down_." Karen drew on every reserve to keep her voice steady and cool. "While you were busy nursing your wrist, did it even occur to you to ask your partner if he was okay?"

"Of course I did! He said he was _fine_."

An exasperated huff of breath escaped as Karen rolled her eyes. "Of course he'd say that, O'Hara—this is Carlton Lassiter we're talking about. After all this time, do you not know him at all?" Karen stood, propping her hands on her desk. "Henry Spencer even made a point of informing me Lassiter actually admitted—out loud—that he might need to see a doctor."

O'Hara's eyes widened. "He _what_?"

"And that was as you were leaving to apprehend the suspects."

All color drained from O'Hara's face. "Oh, God."

Karen felt her control fraying. "He was on the receiving end of a high impact crash and you honestly thought he only got away with a few cuts to the face and a little dizziness?" Her fingers curled slightly, nails digging into the wood surface. "You not only abdicated your responsibility as lead detective on a case, you abandoned your partner. Your _injured _partner. The former is careless, the latter is _unconscionable_."

Karen hadn't thought it possible for the young woman to go any paler. "Is he—?"

"He's home, resting and he is _not_ to be disturbed," she said cutting off what she was sure to be O'Hara's natural inclination. "So help me, O'Hara, if I find out you've tried to contact him, I will bust you down to walking a beat. And God forbid should Mr. Spencer try to contact him—in any way—I _will_ have him arrested." She hit Juliet with a narrow gaze. "And don't think I don't have plenty on which I can keep him locked up well past your childbearing years."

"At least tell me he's okay." O'Hara's voice shook, but her gaze was steady and more than a little pleading. Angry as Karen was, she still recognized, in what little rational part of her brain remained, that the young woman truly cared for her partner and would likely beat herself up over this episode for a long time.

With any luck, she might even learn from it.

"The aforementioned cuts, several of which still had glass embedded in them, a strained shoulder with a pretty good bone bruise, and a severe concussion." Slowly, she resumed her seat and watched as O'Hara mentally categorized the list of injuries and the ease with which Karen had delivered them.

"You took him to the doctor."

"ER, actually. He was in pretty bad shape when I found him Friday night—here—working on this." She pushed the report across the desk to Juliet, who took it, looking vaguely ill.

Calmer now, Karen leaned back in her chair. "You know, O'Hara, working under Lassiter, I've watched you blossom into a really fine detective. Obviously, he thinks so as well, or he wouldn't ever let you take lead on any investigation, regardless of circumstance."

Juliet stared down at the folder in her lap. "I know," she said quietly.

"However—" Karen waited for the younger woman to lift her head and meet her gaze. "In the time you and Mr. Spencer have been together, it would appear you've taken on some of his more unfortunate traits to the point where it's affected the quality of your work. You've become sloppy, deceitful, and dare I say, somewhat selfish?"

An image of the destroyed Crown Vic flashed in her mind, followed quickly by the one of Carlton, alone in a pool of light, hunched over that damned folder, determined to finish—to be a good cop—and a bit of the carefully controlled anger bubbled once more to the surface. Her leg resumed its agitated motions beneath the desk as she very quietly and steadily said, "I'll be honest with you O'Hara—right now, not only do I question your abilities as a detective, I question whether you're fit to write a parking ticket."

Carefully, she folded her hands on her blotter. "You're on desk duty for the next two weeks and after you return to the field, you'll be held strictly to a subordinate position for the next three months. Oh, and you're not to work any cases with Psych during that time. If we need them, I'll assign them to other teams."

"Understood, Chief." O'Hara looked miserable, but resigned. She got it. The fact that she did would go a long way toward helping her in the long run. For right now, however, Karen wanted her gone.

"We're done."

"Yes, ma'am." O'Hara stood and slowly made her way to the door where she paused. "Chief?"

Karen didn't look up from the files she was pretending to study. "Yes?"

"How is he? Really?"

The underlying question was clear. Focused on the doodles she was scribbling on the blank page of a legal pad, Karen said, "He's been in a fair amount of pain, but the concussion symptoms are clearing up." She glanced up and answered the question the young detective really wanted answered. "He doesn't blame you, O'Hara—"

Relief flitted across O'Hara's face, but it was only momentary as Karen added, "But I do." She gripped the pen tightly, relishing the slight pain as the metal barrel pressed into her skin. "Your actions could have cost your partner his _life_." Despite her best efforts, her voice shook on the last word.

"I'm so—"

"Not me you have to apologize to." Disgusted, she shook her head. "Maybe you don't understand it, because he's the only partner you've really had, but the strength of the partnership you two have had is a rare thing. Which makes the way you've treated him this past year all the more shameful. Enough so to make me seriously rethink his earlier request for a new partner."

"Oh, Chief, _no_," Juliet broke in, the expression in her eyes pleading. "Please, give me a chance to fix this."

For long moments Karen did nothing but breathe, willing her heart rate down to something manageable. "I'll leave it up to Lassiter," she finally said. "If he feels he can trust you, then I'll allow you to remain his partner."

O'Hara sagged against the door, visibly relieved. "Thank you."

Karen nodded, knowing she'd done the right thing, no matter how irrationally pissed it left her. "You know, O'Hara—you only get so many second chances. Next time, you might not be so lucky."

With a silent miserable nod of acknowledgment, O'Hara opened the door, revealing the nosy, clearly eavesdropping countenance of one Shawn Spencer who immediately straightened and grinned as if he was on display.

"Chief! Welcome back!"

"Mr. Spencer, I suggest you leave. Immediately."

He cocked his head in mock confusion then lifted his hand to his forehead. "Chief, I'm sensing you're a bit put out about something. What did Lassie do this time?"

"Shawn, seriously, you need to leave, now." With a panicked glance over her shoulder, Juliet tried to push the psychic from the threshold, but the man refused to budge, oily smile firmly in place. "Shawn," she said, desperation coloring her tone, "really, this is so not a good time."

"Mr. Spencer," Karen ground out, her nerves finally at the breaking point, "Leave. Now." In the sudden quiet, the slide of her drawer hissed as ominously as a snake as she opened it and removed her sidearm, placing it with great deliberation and within easy reach on the desk blotter.

"Wow. Okay, then." Even Spencer recognized the move as incredibly uncharacteristic for the normally calm Chief Vick and immediately backed away with a quiet, "Jules?"

"I'll explain later, but for right now, you need to leave." With a final glance, Juliet pushed her now compliant boyfriend from the office, quietly closing the door behind them.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Karen sagged back into her chair, drained, straightening only at the buzzing of her cell phone. After a quick glance at the display, she answered.

"Hey—why aren't you resting?"

She simultaneously sighed with exasperation and grinned as she listened to the response. "Cleaning the grout around your toilet with a toothbrush is not exactly resting." She rolled her eyes, even though he couldn't see. "No… folding laundry is only marginally better."

Her heart beat a little faster as he continued speaking, his tone a little hesitant, a little unsure.

"Are you sure?"

She paused, then continued more softly, even though her door was closed and no one could hear her and hell, no one would believe who had her talking so softly and carefully anyhow. "No, I'd love to, if you're up for it. If you like, I can make us dinner again."

She bit her lip, feeling like she was fifteen again. "Trust me, it wouldn't be any trouble, but yeah, delivery does sounds great and I love Thai. When do you want me?"

Her eyes widened as his tone changed to something utterly certain, causing heat to work its way up from her belly all the way up to her face. She unfastened one button, then another, on her blouse, trying to cool herself off and grateful yet again that her door was closed.

Well, then.

Well.

Next move most assuredly made.


	8. Chapter 8

**Safety in Numbers**

Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in **psych**_**, **_not even a grain of sand in the playground. TPTB own everything, I own nothing, no infringement intended, just having some fun playing "What if…"

**AN:** Hopefully this chapter has gone up quickly enough for _some_ people. *gives Loafer & Amber the hairy side-eye* Hopefully, it is satisfactory my darlings. :)

* * *

><p><em>When do you want me?<em>

_All the time, it seems._

He'd said that.

He had actually _said_ those words.

To Karen.

Vick.

What in the _hell_ had gotten into him?

One minute he'd been as nervous as any pimply-faced sixteen-year-old twerp asking a girl to junior prom; the next, he'd morphed into the sort of smooth confident playah he'd never been.

Would the real Carlton Lassiter please step forward?

He gripped the edges of his bathroom sink and stared into the mirror at the face of the grown man with the panicked expression of a pimply-faced sixteen-year-old twerp lurking in his eyes.

Yeah, he _had_ been nervous, asking if she wanted to join him for dinner. Hell, his palms had even been sweating, nearly making him drop the damned phone. But then she'd replied, sounding just as unsure and nervous, and it'd acted like a balm, settling him down so by the time she assured him, _No, I'd love to, if you're up for it_ in that soft voice, he'd been riding a wave of confidence like he'd never felt before.

So there you had it.

Karen Vick had a way of bringing both of those sides to the fore, along with a host of others. Hopefully, they wouldn't all decide to appear at the same time and collide in what would most certainly be spectacularly disastrous fashion.

Because he just couldn't blow this.

The realization of which was _weird_.

Enough so that it left him wondering—as he scrubbed the grout around his toilet and folded laundry—if he'd known earlier about the change in Karen's relationship status, would Marlowe have ever stood a chance?

If he was absolutely honest?

Ruthlessly honest?

Honest in a way he hadn't been even with those department-mandated whackaloon shrinks?

Probably not.

Much as he'd wanted things to work with Marlowe—and he had—that desire was elevated to almost unimaginable levels when he thought about pursuing a relationship with Karen. A possibility that three days earlier would have been so far off his personal radar as to not even register as the faintest of blips on the outermost edges.

Then Friday night, Karen Vick had burst onto his radar like a guided missile headed straight for him.

Never had he been so grateful to have his clock cleaned by a car accident.

At the sound of the soft knock he straightened—so fast his vision blurred, clearing as he staggered slightly down the hall to the front door. He opened it to find Karen—_definitely_ Karen, not Chief Vick—making him catch his breath in her worn jeans, clinging shirt, and leather jacket. With a smile that left him forgetting _how_ to breathe, she crossed the threshold, holding up a bag as she did.

"I wasn't sure how you felt about Thai desserts, so I brought ice cream, just in case. I hope that's okay."

Carlton swallowed hard, unable to keep from staring. At the tousled blond hair and the wide brown eyes and the slight flush to her cheeks and… and… oh, dear God, _everything_.

"Or we can save it for another time if you want."

He blinked, taking in her quizzical expression.

Ice cream. Food. Yes. That.

"No… it's great."

After closing the door, he took the bag and set it on a nearby table before turning to help with her jacket. As he reached beneath the collar, his fingertips brushed the impossibly soft skin where neck and shoulder met and for a brief moment, they both froze before an unmistakable shiver traveled through Karen's body and straight to his. Slowly, she turned and met his gaze, mouth parted slightly and yeah… there was no way this wasn't going to have happened tonight. He might have thought later on—after dinner and… talking and… and ice cream and… and…

His eyes drifted shut as he lowered his head, not sure who sighed as his mouth met hers. Maybe it didn't matter. A muffled thump registered deep in the recesses of his brain that he recognized as her jacket hitting the floor. After that, the only thing he registered was pure Karen—the feel of her against him as he maneuvered her against the wall, the way her head tilted just so, providing the perfect angle for their mouths to meet even more deeply. Her sigh—definitely hers—as her mouth opened beneath his and her hands slid up his chest and shoulders, one pausing there, bunching in the fabric of his shirt, while the other continued on to find purchase in his hair, her nails scratching lightly at his scalp.

Forget it. The stupid concussion was nothing compared to how this kiss—this real first kiss—was making his head swim.

For a long while they did nothing more than kiss—surprisingly leisurely caresses although plenty of tension simmered below the surface, as if content to wait its turn but serving notice that when the time came…

_Damn_.

Just… _damn_.

Slowly, Carlton drew back, taking deep steadying breaths as he opened his eyes. Nope—not a concussion-induced dream. She was really there, leaning against the wall, lashes dark against her flushed skin as her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, both hands clutching his. Finally, she blinked slowly, her unfocused gaze clearing as she ran the tip of her tongue across her slightly swollen mouth.

"Dear God," he groaned as the foyer's low lights played across the sheen of dampness her tongue left behind.

"Ditto," she said on a sigh, her warm breath teasing the skin at the base of his throat. "With a bonus, _wow_."

"Yeah," he agreed, freeing one hand to shove it through his hair, although he'd be damned if he'd let go of her with the other. And releasing the one hand wasn't such a bad thing, really, not considering how she'd returned it to his neck, the tips of her fingers playing through the short ends of his hair with light, teasing strokes.

"Dare I ask what brought that on?"

His brows rose. "Aside from the fact that you show up at my door in those jeans and… leather and… and… your hair and… looking…" he stammered, searching for even more words to explain how he could he _not_ until she shut him up with the simple act of leaning forward and touching her mouth to his.

Again, leisurely, although perhaps a bit less so than the first one, but still, suggesting that they had time, so much time, and she wanted that time—with _him_, it would appear—and again, he felt dizzy with the knowledge.

She drew back, an unmistakably satisfied smile tinged with more than a hint of smugness curving her mouth that he found himself returning.

"I think I needed to do it, too, to ascertain whether or not my imagination's been playing tricks on me," he murmured, propping one arm on the wall above her head and gazing into the eyes he'd looked at a thousand times, but never really looked into. A world of mystery lived in those dark depths and he was looking forward to uncovering every last damned one of them.

A slow, warm smile crossed her face. "So what's the final consensus, Detective?"

"My imagination sucks. The reality is ten—a hundred times—better." He cupped her cheek in his free hand, his thumb stroking the soft skin. A small part of his brain marveled that this was Karen Vick—Chief of Police and his boss—in his arms and flirting with him. _Him_. Carlton Lassiter, notorious stick-in-the-mud and anathema to most of the human population. But she seemed to be enjoying her current proximity to him and as for what it was doing to him—

Yeah, they had all the time in the world and they should—needed—to go slow, but it had been a _long_ time and she was warm and sensual in a way he'd never imagined and in his arms, by God.

Judging by the darkening of her eyes and the way the tip of her tongue skimmed over the surface of her lips again, she was more or less in the same state.

"This would be really stupid right now," he whispered, leaning down and ghosting a soft kiss against the delicate skin just below her ear.

"Monumentally stupid," she gasped as she tilted her head back, giving him greater access to her throat. One hand twisted in his shirt front while the other moved to the buttons, slipping one free and he'd tell himself just how stupid it was after—

The sharp knock penetrated the fog of thoughts and sensation, making him draw back with a regretful—yet relieved—sigh.

"Damn," he whispered as he pushed away from the wall.

"I know," Karen replied, the same combination of regret and relief reflected in her eyes as she gently rubbed his shoulder. "Monumentally stupid," she repeated with another sigh, this one sounding like it was heavier on the regret.

"I know."

But still.

_Still_—

While he paid for their food she slipped off to the kitchen, gathering plates and silverware and generally giving them both space in which they could collect themselves enough to act like adults and not, you know, horny teenagers with no self control.

And he tried to hold it together, he really did, but… _damn. _There she was, sitting to his right, shoes kicked off with one leg tucked beneath her, the foot of the other occasionally grazing his leg as she enthusiastically dug into the small mountain of food he'd ordered and really, was there anything hotter than a woman who actually ate with pure gusto and enjoyment? It naturally led to thoughts of what else she did with such enthusiasm which naturally led back to that kiss by the door and…

_Damn._

Carlton glared balefully at the glass of soda by his plate, the increasingly frustrated adult male in him desperate for a shot of Jameson's with which to take off the edge, but Gibson, that killjoy, had informed him that booze was off the menu for at least another three days.

Bastard.

"Carlton, please stop."

Startled, he glanced up and into her gaze that was equal parts amused and every bit as frustrated as his.

"Monumentally stupid," she reminded him softly as she reached out and took his hand in hers and that simple touch was all it took, making him want more, but reminding him yet again—they had time. Time in which he wanted to get to know this woman he'd known for years yet hadn't known at all.

"Yeah, I am," he joked as he picked his fork up and resumed eating, finally tasting the food.

"Shut up," she retorted with a grin that made him wonder what kind of girl she had been. What kind of cop she'd been when she was on the line. Tough, no doubt.

"Why'd you want to become Chief?" he impulsively asked around bites of pork satay

Karen narrowed her eyes as she regarded him over the rim of her glass. After taking a drink, she set the glass down and picked her fork back up, playing it through the rice and green curry on her plate.

"I was pregnant," she finally said. A faint wash of color rose in her cheeks that he suspected had nothing to do with the spiciness of the food. "It was a good move career-wise, sure, but the biggest factor for me was my baby. Becoming Chief, even if it was only on an interim basis, was a surefire way to keep myself and by extension, Iris, safe."

Carlton studied her, the faint discomfort clearly written across her features, and worried that he'd said something wrong.

"I can see that," he finally said.

Her gaze remained resolutely focused on the plate. "You didn't at the time."

"I was a jackass with an overdeveloped sense of entitlement at the time. These days, I'm just a jackass."

One corner of her mouth rose. "Stop it."

"Hey, I'm well aware of my shortcomings even if I'll die before admitting them in public."

Her dark gaze rose and met his. "But you're admitting them to me."

He laughed. "For one thing, you've probably figured out most of my shortcomings over the years and the ones you've somehow missed or overlooked are no doubt outlined in great detail in my psych evals. For another thing, you're not the public." Shrugging, he took a drink of soda, soothing his suddenly dry throat. "Besides, I trust you," he said quietly as he replaced the glass on the table, hoping she got was he was saying.

After eating quietly for a few moments she spoke again. "I thought being Chief would be a good way, too, to have a more normal life. Regular hours. Yeah, there are politics to navigate, but that's the easy part, really." One shoulder rose as she smashed rice grains with the tines of her fork. "Truth is, I thought it would be easier on me to supervise a larger number of cases rather than get so deeply invested in single cases as a detective. That it would leave more in the emotional tank for Iris."

"And?" he asked carefully.

Karen sighed and pushed her plate away. "It seems I can't help but get emotionally invested and I gave everything else I had to Iris and, well…"

"The tank ran dry?"

Carlton didn't have to wait for her nod to know he'd guessed right and he felt a little sick on her behalf. He'd been there. He knew how much doing the job well took out of a good cop—knew how much it had taken out of him when he'd been married, leaving damned little. And whatever else—whether she was in uniform, a detective, or the chief—he knew Karen was a good cop. As far as her rationale for taking the job—well, he could see where it had made sense at the time.

"You know, it's another reason I didn't tell anyone," she said quietly.

"What's that?"

"If I didn't have to be… you know, out there, then I wouldn't potentially be put in a position to screw up again. Guess that makes me a coward." With a quick, embarrassed glance, she rose, taking her plate into the kitchen.

Carlton followed more slowly, giving her a couple of seconds, because he knew how hard that kind of admission was. With only minimal conversation, they cleaned up and it wasn't until they were seated on the sofa, cups of coffee in hand, that he made reference to her statement.

"The last thing you are is a coward. And you most assuredly did not screw up."

"Oh yeah?" Surprisingly, she smiled, gentle, but wide enough for the telltale laugh lines to appear in her cheeks and fan from the corners of her eyes, reminding him this was a woman who more than matched him in experience. Moreover, she was a tough woman who wouldn't let him get away with a single moment of bullshit. Rather than feel intimidated, however, he found himself intrigued and more than a little aroused and God, he had it bad.

"So what did you call it when it happened to you?"

"Touché." He touched his mug to hers and for a while, they sat quietly, drinking their coffee. After they finished, it seemed like the most natural thing to reach for her, pull her close against him and draw her head down to rest on his good shoulder. Seemed like the most natural thing to sit quietly, his arm around her shoulder while night sounds drifted through the open windows and a cool breeze brought with it the scents of flowers and the nearby ocean.

"Why now?"

"I'll be damned if I know." Her fingers toyed with the buttons on his shirt, but more meditative than with intent. "I just know it feels right, somehow." Her fingers stilled. "Carlton—"

He put his hand over hers. "I didn't just clean grout all day."

"Oh?"

"Figured if Gib was going to stick me on the sidelines then he owed me. Drove me up to the prison this afternoon."

"Oh." After a beat of silence she asked, hesitantly, it sounded, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

"Really?" She eased back far enough to look into his face. "You had a lot of expectations wrapped up in her."

"I did." He brushed her hair back from her face. "Gib, in his usual tactful manner, pointed out that they might have been unfair expectations. For both of us. I think Marlowe understood that." And just because he had to, because it had been at least two hours since that moment at the door, he kissed her. A light, sweet caress, full of the kind of promise that made it damn near impossible to stop, yet at the same time, possible to ease back, knowing that for tonight, it was enough to hold her close.

After a while, she sighed and slipped from his arms. "It's a school night and I only have the baby-sitter until nine-thirty," she said, pointing at her watch. "And you really need to get some rest."

He stood and extended a hand to help her up. "Is that the Chief talking or Karen?"

Standing, she slipped her arms around his waist and gazed up at him. "Karen first, Chief second."

He swallowed hard. "Wow."

"What?"

He used the excuse of walking her to the door and helping her with her jacket to buy himself some time. "I'm not used to anyone… caring."

Once more her arms found their way around his waist but rather than look up at him, she rested her head against his chest, making her, "Get used to it," emerge somewhat muffled, but none the less fierce for it and increasing his determination tonot blow this.

"So—"

She glanced up as she slipped her feet into her flats. "Yeah?"

"You think you can get that sitter again on Friday night?"

A slow smile crossed Karen's face and brightened her eyes. "I think that can be arranged, yes. Did you have something in mind, Detective Lassiter?"

He grinned in response. "I was thinking perhaps of inviting you out on a proper date, Chief Vick." If the thought of flirting with Karen had been damned near unimaginable, the idea that they could be playing this game within the context of their respective positions was damn near unbelievable. Even more so that he found it fun. "Dinner at a restaurant of your choosing?"

"Why, Detective," she replied in a low voice that had him swallowing hard and hanging on to the doorknob for dear life. "That sounds lovely. Say, seven?"

And despite the low voice and the tightening of his gut and the reminder again that it had been a really _long_ time, he still found it within himself to lift a hand that only shook a little to her face and in a voice that was completely steady say, "You know, if we're going to do this, Karen, I do want to do it right."

Karen tilted her head against his hand and regarded him with a mildly quizzical expression drawing her brows together. "I would expect nothing less from you, Carlton."

He blinked, registering not only her words, but the surety in her tone. "Really?"

She turned her head far enough to press a light kiss to his palm. "Really," she replied, her breath warm against his skin. Rising on tiptoe, she whispered, "I'll talk to you tomorrow. Now, get some rest—no more grout, okay?" before pressing a quick kiss to his mouth and slipping out the door.

Rest?

_Really_?

She expected him to rest after leaving him with that kiss and that certainty and the feeling that every damned thing in his world had just shifted for the better?

No… this required thought and a thorough review every moment of the evening, especially each of those kisses and…

And…

He was gone before his head hit the pillow.


	9. Chapter 9

**Safety in Numbers**

Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in **psych**_**, **_not even a grain of sand in the playground. TPTB own everything, I own nothing, no infringement intended, just having some fun playing "What if…"

**AN: **Sorry for the interruption in service. It's been a crazy week. Feel free to lash me with wet noodles. I will do my best to not take quite so long with the next update.

* * *

><p>"Mommy?"<p>

"_Mom_—"

"Hm?"

Karen blinked and stared down at Iris who returned her gaze with an accusing one of her own, small fists perched on her hips.

"You're doing it again."

"Doing what? And did you brush your teeth?"

Iris sighed in a way that was entirely too much like her Aunt Barb for Karen's taste. The way the six-year-old's eyes narrowed was a little too much like Karen's older sister's as well.

"Yes I brushed my teeth."

"All right, make sure you have your backpack while I make your lunch."

"That's what you said twenty minutes ago."

"What?" Surely the child was wrong. There was no way—

A panicked glance at the clock revealed that no, the child was not wrong.

"Crap."

"Mommy!"

"Sorry—" Karen turned back to finish making Iris' lunch so they could go because they were now running crazy late, only to stop cold at the sight that greeted her.

"I don't have to eat that, do I?"

Karen stared at the combination of peanut butter and tuna salad on whole wheat and shuddered. "Absolutely not."

"That's the second time this week you messed up my lunch."

Karen cringed at Iris' mildly accusatory tone, especially since her daughter wasn't wrong.

Tuesday it had been marshmallow fluff and lemon curd. Karen had been annoyed as much because she'd uncharacteristically messed up Iris' lunch as because it'd been a massive waste of the good English lemon curd she reserved for her Sunday morning scones. Now peanut butter and tuna and what was _really_ bad—outside of _ew_, peanut butter and tuna—was the fact that she'd actually had to make up the tuna fish salad, so somewhere in the midst of that, her psyche had switched gears and thought peanut butter would be the better choice. Or addition. Or something.

And it was all Carlton's fault, dammit.

Tuesday she'd still been cloaked in a fog of wonder and discovery and, well, yes… lust, from their dinner the night before. Today's excuse? Carlton's return to work—and the first time they'd be seeing each other since Monday and the time apart had done absolutely nothing to help with easing the lust. If anything, it was worse, mostly because the man had a phone voice to _die_ for and was surprisingly flirtatious in texts.

He kept this up and she'd probably find herself spreading pimiento cheese on a flip flop.

She suspected it would take all of her considerable willpower and discipline to not behave in a manner unbecoming to the Chief of Police when she first laid eyes on him today. Never mind that she was still somewhat bemused to find herself thinking this way about Carlton Lassiter, but thing was, he wasn't Carlton Lassiter anymore—he was just Carlton and there was so much to learn about him—

"_Mom._"

Karen blinked and took note of the increasingly late time. Damn. All right, making lunch was clearly out of the question—the real goal now was getting Iris to school sometime _before_ said lunch.

"I'm sorry, sweetie—let's get going."

"But what about lunch?"

"I'll give you money—you can buy lunch."

She cringed again at her daughter's undeniably relieved sigh and muttered, "Good. It's pizza day anyway."

Forty-five minutes later, Iris was safely at school and Karen was ensconced in her office with coffee, trying not to stare anxiously in the direction of the hallway leading to the bullpen and feeling as if she was failing miserably. She already knew he was going to be late—a final appointment with Dr. Gibson to ascertain if the symptoms had abated enough for him to return to work—_and_ he'd promised he'd text when he was on his way in, so there was no reason she should be so anxious.

Except she wanted to see him.

As if on cue, her phone buzzed at her elbow, the screen lighting up.

_In the parking lot. On my way in. Please tell me you're going to have to call me into your office to bring me up to speed?_

She grinned and quickly typed a response.

_I was thinking you'd at least have to come into my office and give me an update on what Dr. Gibson said, but bringing you up to speed works, too._

Glancing up as she hit Send, Karen caught sight of Officer McNab's genial face as he passed by her open door—the pleased smile on his face as he glanced in and nodded making her cognizant of her own smile. She should have probably smothered it—at least subdued it somewhat—but good Lord, it felt good to smile. Really smile.

Her phone buzzed again.

_Are the blinds drawn?_

Her smile only grew broader as heat rose in her cheeks. Oh, dear God. Not just flirtatious, but downright seductive, especially since she could practically hear the words delivered in the low voice he seemed to reserve for late night conversations. That she knew that voice—even if only via phone—invited in a whole host of new thoughts, most of which weren't fit for the workplace.

They were really going to have to be careful, but good Lord, this—_this_—also felt so very good.

Her phone buzzed again.

_Karen? Did I go too far?_

Hurriedly she typed a response, knowing he had to be getting close.

_Chief Vick would say yes, but I'm damned tired of her. I want to be Karen. _

_Personally, I like both of you—but I will confess a weakness for Karen._

A knotted tense feeling took root low in her belly, but not unpleasantly so.

_Well, in the interests of full disclosure, I have to confess a weakness for Carlton._

She hit Send before she could lose her nerve, then quickly typed another text.

_And to answer your question—yes. They're drawn._

Accident, coincidence, what_ever_—at least she wouldn't have to engender any questions about closing the damned things.

Moments after sending the final text she heard brisk footsteps approaching. Pretending to be absorbed in paperwork, she watched from beneath her lashes as Carlton strode toward his desk in his usual no-nonsense manner, nodding and even smiling in response to the various "Welcome back, Detective," greetings he received. As was his habit, he removed his suit jacket—black, she noted, worn with a cream shirt and dark violet tie—and hung it neatly on the coat rack before directing his attention down to the files and memos waiting on his desk. Only once did he look toward her office, waiting until she lifted her head, as if in chance, and nodding, much in the way he had with everyone else. There was a pause, however—infinitesimal, really—where Detective Lassiter fell away, revealing Carlton, and what Karen saw in that split second of intense blue set her leg to bouncing wildly beneath the desk.

She was going to have to call him into the office and soon and she could scold herself for unprofessional thoughts later. But not yet. First, Karen had to allow one more greeting take place. She forced her attention back to the files on her desk, although she once again kept a surreptitious eye out as O'Hara approached her partner, wisps of steam rising from the white ceramic mug with the molded Glock handle she carried and an overall apprehensive air clinging to her.

Karen hadn't divulged much to him about her talk with O'Hara, other than to inform him that he and his partner would be riding a desk together because she couldn't, in all good conscience, let the younger detective off without _some_ sort of reprimand. Her actions, prompted at least in part by her involvement with Spencer, had bordered on reckless, regardless of who her partner was. When Carlton had pointed out, in typically blunt fashion, that perhaps Spencer's behavior had been prompted at least in part because it _was_ Carlton, Karen had retorted that made it worse. O'Hara wasn't stupid—she knew how her boyfriend felt about her partner, and consciously or not, she was condoning the behavior.

Truth was, too, she had to shoulder her own share of the blame as well. It's not as if she'd been completely unaware of the growing issues, and she should have nipped them in the bud earlier, but she'd been so certain, when O'Hara had assured her that her deepening personal involvement with Shawn wouldn't affect her ability to do her job, that Carlton was just overreacting. Karen couldn't help the pangs of guilt that assaulted her every time she thought of it. She'd been just as bad as the rest of them—so dismissive of his feelings. Completely unwilling to believe he _had_ any feelings worth considering.

God, she _sucked_. Why he'd even want to be with her—

A knock had her glancing up to find Carlton standing in the open doorway, manila folder in hand, brows drawn together.

"Is it a bad time?"

The Karen part of her wanted to break into an enormous, giddy, quite possibly sixteen-year-old-like grin at the sight of him standing there. That same part also wanted to lunge across the desk and do a lot more than grin, because holy hell, did he look wonderful, shirt sleeves rolled up, top button undone, the light tan acquired from the walks he'd taken the last few days and the deep violet hue of that tie doing magnificent things to his eyes.

The Chief Vick part of her, however, somehow managed to wrestle Karen into submission, taking control of the situation with a small smile and a nod.

"Not at all, Detective. Come in." As he crossed the threshold, she quietly added, "And shut the door," noting with no small amount of satisfaction the flare of heat that brightened his eyes as he closed the door, turning the lock with an almost inaudible click.

Leaning back against the door he silently regarded her, his chest rising and falling steadily.

"Hey," he finally said.

"Hey." Her grip tightened on her pen as a sudden wave of shyness overtook her. "How are you feeling?"

His eyes narrowed as he cocked his head. "Is that Chief Vick asking or Karen?"

Her heart constricted. He still didn't believe. Probably wouldn't for a long while and honestly, why would he? As evidenced by the recent direction of her thoughts, what proof had she given him in the past? And if there was one thing Carlton Lassiter had, it was a long memory. For whatever reason, though, he seemed willing to give her a chance and God knows, she was more than willing to take it. But just because he was willing to give her that chance didn't mean it was going to necessarily be easy. It was going to take time and patience and a hell of a lot of reassuring. Good thing she had plenty of the first two and an intense desire to give him the third.

Rising from her desk, she crossed to where he stood. After a final glance to make certain that yes, all of the blinds were drawn, she slid her arms around his waist and rose just far enough to rub her cheek against his jaw, her eyes closing as she whispered, "Even if it's under the guise of Chief Vick, as far as you're concerned, it's always Karen first, Carlton."

She sighed as his arms came around her and she felt his lips brush the sensitive skin by her ear. For long moments they simply stood there, her cheek pressed to his chest, his heart beating with a steady, comforting rhythm.

"It's amazing," he said quietly.

"What's that?"

"I have spent the better part of the last few days imagining all the different things I want to do with you and to you and all the different ways I want to do them."

Karen swallowed hard. Sweet gentle Jesus, the phone voice, translated to real life, was just this side of devastating, assaulting all of her senses and bringing into vivid focus all the different things _she'd_ spent the last few days imagining.

"Oh?"

"Yeah." Carlton laughed softly then added, "But as much as I'm looking forward to all of that—" He paused as if waiting for her response. As she gently squeezed his midsection, she felt a tremor run through him—more proof of nerves and insecurity—before he sighed and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

"At the same time, I can't imagine anything that could possibly feel better than holding you. Just like this."

As Carlton's quiet words wrapped themselves around her, Karen felt the most extraordinary sensation—one she couldn't recall ever having experienced before and that only intensified with his next words.

"I honestly think I could stay like this… forever."

And with those words—those quiet, shy, yet nevertheless absolutely certain words—she knew without a doubt what the sensation was.

She was falling.

And hard.


	10. Chapter 10

**Safety in Numbers**

Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in **psych**_**, **_not even a grain of sand in the playground. TPTB own everything, I own nothing, no infringement intended, just having some fun playing "What if…"

Short chapter, although not quite interlude-y short. Fear not, crime fighters—another chapter coming rather soonish.

* * *

><p>"I swear to God, you are a class A idiot."<p>

"Would you, for the love of all that's good and holy, shut the hell up?"

"I will not. Look at you, pacing like a nervous racehorse. Honestly, what in the hell are you so nervous about?"

"Aside from the fact that I somehow inexplicably took leave of my senses and asked you along?"

"Which brings me back to my original statement of you being a class A idiot by which I stand. Wholeheartedly, even."

Carlton ground his teeth together as he took another turn around the restaurant's dimly lit foyer. "Gib, for the last time, shut. Up."

From his position leaning against the rustic brick wall, Gib snorted. "You can save your Detective Lassiter glare for someone it actually works on."

"Bite me," Carlton growled. At the faithless bastard's evil laugh, however, he finally stopped with the pacing, opting instead to take up a position against the wall beside Gib that allowed for an unobstructed view to the front door and the wide windows flanking either side.

"Look, all kidding aside, if you were so determined to do this, using your words, right, riddle me this—why are you having the lovely Karen Vick meet you here, as opposed to picking her up at home, car, shoes, and those manners the nuns beat into you polished to a spit shine?"

Gaze remaining fixed the door, Carlton replied, "She has Iris this weekend."

"Ah." From the corner of his eye, Carlton caught Gib's thoughtful nod.

"Too soon?"

"Too soon."

The result of nearly twenty-five years of friendship. So much contained within those two short words. Of course, this was Riley Gibson—genetically incapable of leaving it at two short words.

"For you or Iris?"

Normally, he'd be carrying at least one weapon—if not in his preferred shoulder holster, then at least a smaller one at his ankle—but part of pursuing this relationship in a manner he considered "right" was behaving more like a normal person. And dammit, normal people didn't tend to carry weapons. Stupid, naïve, and unprepared, but there you had it. He'd just have to brush up on his hand-to-hand combat skills.

But it also meant that right now, he didn't have so much as a tiny little Derringer lurking in an inside breast pocket with which to threaten Gibson.

Beside him, Gib laughed quietly, reinforcing Carlton's suspicion that even without having said a damned word, his erstwhile best friend knew he was unarmed.

"That vein in your forehead throbs any more violently, you'll give yourself an aneurysm."

"If I do, it'll be your damned fault you smug son of a bitch."

"Good thing I'm a doctor then, right?"

Please, dear God, let Karen get here before he was arrested for assault, although he was fairly certain he could get a judge to let him off after he explained the circumstances. Perfectly justifiable circumstances.

"_Relax_, Carl."

"You do realize, that in the last twenty-five years whenever you've uttered those words, it inevitably leads to my winding up ass over teakettle in some sort of trouble."

"Dear God, I hope so."

Seriously—justifiable. Even if it devolved to homicide. Yet at the same time, how mad could he really get? Carlton knew from Gib's seemingly casual comments, after having met Karen, he was impressed—a hell of a trick since Gib didn't impress all that easily. Hell, the mere fact of his presence tonight, essentially acting as wingman, was akin to bestowing a blessing. Gib hadn't even done that during Carlton's days of dating Victoria, claiming the busy schedule of a resident as excuse. Carlton had known better—Gib had had a bad feeling about Victoria, hadn't been shy about letting Carlton know he had a bad feeling, and had then promptly shut up, leaving Carlton to make his own mistakes.

So yeah—he was here tonight.

Least Carlton could do was let Gib know he'd gotten the message—and appreciated it.

"_You_ are an unmitigated ass."

Gib laughed. "Tell me something I don't know, son."

His gaze sweeping past the wide windows, hoping to see a flash of dark blonde hair or that distinctive confident stride, he confessed, "I'm looking forward to getting to know Iris, actually. Feels like I already know her—at least on some level."

"I know. You didn't stop talking about it for weeks afterward."

Heat rose from the base of Carlton's throat, making him grateful he'd foregone a tie tonight. "Yeah, I'd forgotten about that. Sorry."

"Why in hell would you be sorry?"

Carlton shrugged. Never easy for him—letting someone see how deeply affected he could get. Even Gib, who'd seen him through so much.

"I'm curious." Gib's voice was soft." Did you ever get the chance to talk to Victoria about it?"

"Nope."

"Just as well, I think."

"Oh?"

"Sometimes, I think things happen just the way they're supposed to."

"Seriously?" Carlton's eyebrows rose. "You gonna pull out tarot cards next?"

If Gib said anything, it was lost in the rush of wind as the door opened, or maybe that was just the roaring of the blood in his ears, as Karen stepped through the door, her expression clouded with uncertainty until it found his. And as he felt a grin crossing his face, he saw an answering one breaking across her face, brightening her eyes.

From somewhere behind him he heard a soft, "_Relax_, Carl," but it was too damned late.

He was _so_ ass over teakettle in trouble and looking for more.


	11. Chapter 11

**Safety in Numbers**

Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in **psych**_**, **_not even a grain of sand in the playground. TPTB own everything, I own nothing, no infringement intended, just having some fun playing "What if…"

Another sort of short chapterlet. Not at all how I expected it to go, but hey, I just follow what they want me to do. And it would appear that... well, never mind. You'll see what I mean.

* * *

><p>Karen slid into the booth, meeting Carlton's gaze as she did and feeling her breath catch. Again. She'd been doing so much of that since she arrived at the restaurant, it was a minor miracle she wasn't hyperventilating. He was just so utterly <em>Carlton<em> tonight. Sure, the dark khaki slacks and well-cut dark brown blazer were very much in keeping with Detective Lassiter, but the lack of a tie and the shirt, with two buttons left undone and open just far enough to allow for glimpses of his chest was most assuredly _not _working attire for him. If it was, she might had revealed her marital status a lot sooner. Then there was the matter of the color of the shirt itself—a surprising shade she could only liken to tobacco, the deep gold-green setting off his fair skin and salt-and-pepper hair and doing things to his eyes she was reasonably certain were prohibited by law.

Definitely made her grateful she'd uncharacteristically ducked out of work early and gone shopping for something thoroughly impractical—for the first time in seemingly forever. She'd determinedly skipped the familiar, comfortable environs of Ann Taylor and Talbot's and J. Crew, and had instead made a beeline for one of the specialty boutiques that carried things that were simply… pretty. Because that's how Carlton made her feel, every time he looked at her, in her staid, practical Ann Taylor and Talbot's and J. Crew. So sue her for wanting to see what his reaction would be like if she actually went to some sort of effort.

If she had to guess by the way his eyes had widened and the telltale flush that had risen from the open collar of his shirt as she approached him in the foyer wearing the simple champagne halter dress with its subtle touches of pink and gold and the full, utterly feminine skirt, she'd passed "pretty" and gone on into some other realm. At the same time, though, despite his obvious appreciation for how she looked, she was still nervous because other than a quiet "hello" in the foyer, he hadn't said a damned word and frankly, it was unnerving. Especially since waiting with him in the foyer had been none other than Dr. Gibson.

As he seated himself across from her she chanced a glance back over her shoulder to the foyer where Gibson had remained after his own hellos, and where he was currently greeting some impossibly statuesque brunette. Catching her gaze, he winked, before grasping his date's arm and heading off in the direction of the bar. _B__less_ him.

Turning back, she caught Carlton staring at her with something akin to wonder lurking deep in those intense blue eyes, assuaging her nerves—a little. She watched the muscles work along the long column of his throat as he swallowed and fought back the urge to squirm. _Dammit_—how was it he was making such a mundane, basic function look so blasted sexy? Maybe it had to do with the unblinking stare fixed on her as he did so.

"Hi."

And there it was—the phone voice—low, intimate, and doing funny things to her insides.

"Hi," she replied, and couldn't even be bothered to be embarrassed by how breathless her voice sounded. After the waiter came by and took their orders for drinks, she met his gaze again, still intent, still steady, and still doing monumentally funny things in the vicinity of her stomach. Desperate to break the air of tension, if only so she didn't humiliate herself by doing something unseemly, she cast about for something to say, finally settling on, "So… a double date?" and wanting to kick herself as soon as the words left her mouth.

The flush deepened, but only along his cheekbones, allowing her to note just how high and angled they were and really, was there anything the man could do that _wouldn't_ make her see him in a new and extremely attractive light?

But still—Gibson's presence was unexpected and did make her nervous for a whole other host of reasons. What if Carlton changed his mind? Admittedly, it was an unexpected door that had opened a week ago, allowing her a glimpse of possibility, but for whatever reason, that possibility, at that time, had been the right one and she'd stepped through. Even though it terrified the hell out of her if she stopped to think about it too much.

Yet at the same time, ever since, she'd been giddy in a way she hadn't experienced since she was a teenager—giddy overlaid with a very adult sense of tension and anticipation and… and…

_God, please don't have let him have changed his mind._

"I'm sorry," he finally said, long fingers fidgeting with the dark red cloth of the napkin. "I…" Again he swallowed and again, she fought the urge to lean across the table and run her fingertips down the long column of his throat and into the open neck of his shirt with its glimpses of his chest, the dark hair a tantalizing shadow she wanted to explore more fully.

"I thought it might be—" His eyes darkened as that all-encompassing gaze seemed to drink her in. "Safer."

Suddenly, the halter top of her dress with its body-hugging, yet comfortable fit, felt more like a sausage casing, too tight and about to burst.

"Carlton?"

"Yeah?"

"The babysitter?"

"Yeah?"

"I have her all night."

Nothing from him beyond a sigh and a quiet, "Are you sure, Karen?"

The door opened wider, allowing her a greater glimpse of what _could_ be. If she was willing to take the risk.

Was she?

She regarded him across the table—this man she'd once thought so simple, if only because he was so quiet, and who was anything but—that unblinking gaze fixed steadily on her—_her—_and with not a little heat banked within the normally cool blue.

"Yeah." She breathed deep, feeling warm breezes bathe her skin as that door opened _all_ the way. "I'm sure."


	12. Chapter 12

**Safety in Numbers**

Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in **psych**_**, **_not even a grain of sand in the playground. TPTB own everything, I own nothing, no infringement intended, just having some fun playing "What if…"

* * *

><p>The elevator ride to his condo was outwardly silent yet filled with a boatload of unspoken communication. The way she'd taken half a step forward and turned slightly as the doors slid open, invitation to put his hand to that spot, low on her back where warm bare skin met the fabric of her dress. And oh, dear God, that <em>dress<em>. As she'd turned to face the doors, he'd allowed his fingers to linger—trailing across the soft, silky fabric covering her abdomen, warmed by her body's heat, in a way meant to let her know yes, he _really_ liked the dress and appreciated the effort she'd gone to. That she'd gone to that effort for _him_.

Carlton hoped, too, that his subtle caress also communicated how very much he wanted her _out_ of the dress.

His breath caught as he felt her hand tuck itself into the crook of his elbow before gradually sliding down his forearm to his hand, squeezing it gently as her thumb traced a slow, maddening pattern along the inside of his wrist. Never before had he considered the inside of his wrist an erogenous zone.

He was going to have to rethink that notion _immediately_. As well as the notion that this was Karen Vick about whom he was having such thoughts.

_Your boss_, whispered the insidious voice that insisted on reminding him of that little detail at the absolute worst times. Like now. Standing at his door, fitting his key into the lock, and turning it awkwardly with his left hand because she still had hold of his right and didn't seem inclined to let it go any time soon.

_Your boss_, it hissed again as they crossed the threshold and he closed and locked the door.

_Your boss, your superior, who could be in for a world of trouble if it's discovered that she's in a relationship with you and while we're at it, yeah, let's talk about you. With your track record. Professionally and personally and the times you haven't been able to draw a line between the two. This could be bad. Oh, so very bad. _

Turning to her, however, all he could see was Karen, the woman first revealed to him—_God_, only a week ago.

Karen, with her flushed cheeks and large dark eyes, and soft blonde hair teasing her cheeks and the nape of her neck in a way that beckoned him to touch.

But much as he wanted to touch, to explore, to discover the mysteries that lay behind the pretty dress and inviting smile, the whispery voice was just insistent enough that he restrained himself to a glancing caress against her cheek. His resolve to slow down, though—to talk about this—to make _sure _dammit, weakened as her eyes drifted shut and she turned her head just far enough to place a gentle kiss against his palm.

"Karen…"

Her eyes opened and dark as they were, he could nevertheless read every emotion—the amusement, the patience, the tolerance, and a certain awareness that she knew exactly the demons he wrestled with, mostly because she wrestled with them herself.

Carlton's heart constricted , his breath catching at the realization that he could read her so clearly. How was that even possible? Especially considering this was _him_—with his notoriously bad interpersonal skills. At least, with respect to personal relationships. Sure, he had a measure of it with O'Hara in work situations, but that had been developed over time and with experience. Yet here he was, barely a week into a relationship with Karen, and he _knew _her. Better than he'd known Victoria, even, and he'd married her.

"You scared?" she asked with a hesitant smile.

"Out of my freaking head," he admitted with a soft laugh.

"Me too." Lifting her hands to his chest, she slid them beneath the lapels of his blazer and up to his shoulders, pushing the fabric down his arms. With a slight shrug, he helped, then watched as she took the blazer and walked into his living room, laying it neatly across the back of one of the armchairs before disappearing into the kitchen. A moment later she reappeared carrying two tumblers filled with amber liquid, handing him one.

"Liquid courage," she murmured, but before she could lift it to her lips and take a drink, he removed it from her grasp. Setting both glasses on the end table, he took her hands in his and shook his head.

"I don't need courage for that." He freed one hand in order to touch her hair, the skin of her cheek, to rest his hand on the inviting curve of her neck where it met her shoulder, left bare and cool by her dress, but warming rapidly beneath his touch.

"Look, when I asked if you were sure, it wasn't just about—" A blush warmed his cheeks—talking about intimacy had definitely never been his strong suit and the last thing he wanted was to stumble over stupid words and unwittingly reduce this to something crass. Yet to say out loud what he wanted to call it—that might feel like overstepping a boundary of another sort.

Then again, maybe it was best to just lay it all out there.

He started again. "Karen, I meant what I said about doing this right." His thumb traced the elegant line of her jaw. "I mean, I'm no monk nor some kind of asexual automaton, no matter what Spencer might say—"

"Do _not_ mention him," she broke in, her voice just shy of a snarl. "Not here. Not when we're… together like this. When it comes to you, he has no goddamned clue and please don't think I'm not well aware of that fact."

Momentarily stunned, he gazed into her face and the obvious anger reflected there. "Duly noted," he replied as the still-unfamiliar sense of being cared for wound its way around him. Taking a deep breath he continued, knowing this might be his best opportunity to say what he needed to say.

"Regardless, despite the occasional… fling, I'm not a fling sort of guy. It's not who I am. If we do this, it's because I want… more. I know it might seem like too much, too soon, but I can't help it. It's how I feel." His heart hammered painfully against the inside of his chest, like his ribs were a damned marimba or something. "And if we do this, all hell could break loose, Karen—more for you, than me. That's what I want you to be sure about."

In response she arched into his touch, tilting her head so the ends of her hair brushed the back of his hand and again, another new erogenous zone he'd never before imagined.

"Do you feel like you know me, Carlton?"

Barely able to draw a full breath, he nevertheless managed a fairly steady, "Yes." Cupping her face in both his hands, he gazed down into her eyes—those dark eyes that should have easily hidden every thought and emotion, yet maybe it was because they were lit from within by those tiny shards of green and gold, revealed so much to him.

"There's a lot I don't know _about_ you and that believe me, I'm going to enjoy learning, but—and I'll be damned if I know how—I know _you_, Karen."

Her lips, tinted a soft pink, turned up in a smile and if it wasn't for the fact that he knew she had something else to say, he would've kissed her, right there, and paid the piper later.

"I know you do," she said, barely above a whisper. "I know because I feel the exact same way. So, if you feel that way and _you've_ been mulling over all this, then…" Her voice trailed off as one eyebrow rose

"Of course." He laughed softly. "Of course you've thought this all through, too." He exhaled slowly, the terror easing and leaving behind a sense of security that was also unfamiliar—yet not. "So—you're sure."

Statement, not question. But she treated it as such, nodding her head and slowly turning in his arms, bowing her head so the tie securing her dress at her neck was exposed.

"Oh boy, you _are_ sure," he breathed, his fingertips tracing a wondering path along the line of her spine, making her shiver. Bending forward slightly, he allowed his mouth to follow the same path, the tip of his tongue tracing subtle bumps and ridges, learning the unique Braille of her body, his own arousal rising with each soft sigh, with the way she blindly reached back, grasping one of his hands and holding on, as if without that anchor, she might just collapse.

Carlton filed each sigh and gasp and its corresponding caress away for future use. Not that he was done with her back—or the rest of her, come to think of it—but there were more… _comfortable_ locales in which to conduct such explorations. Straightening, he turned her once more and took her mouth, his tongue demanding immediate entry, thrilled to discover a complete lack of resistance.

Which wasn't to say she was passive—oh, hell no. This was Karen and last thing this woman could be considered was passive. While their mouths explored, her hands were busy, slipping buttons free, pulling the tails of his shirt from his slacks, spreading her hands across his bare chest and making his heart start with that marimba pounding madness once more. Somehow, without ever breaking their embrace, he managed to maneuver them through the living room, down the hall, and into the dimly lit confines of his bedroom. There, gentle night breezes blew the smell of the ocean through the open window while the queen-sized bed serenely waited, dressed in its fresh linens as if somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd _known_.

As they stumbled to a halt alongside the bed, she finally pulled away, her gaze searching his, her fingertips tracing the outlines of his face, a look of wonder on hers as if she, too, was trying to figure out not so much how they'd gotten here, but how in the hell they'd missed each other for so long.

Leaning in to him, she wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his bare chest, her hair a silky teasing caress, turning his knees to water. Her hands spread across his back, nails scratching lightly, she whispered, "God, yes, I am so sure, Carlton," each word a heated brand against his skin.

His breath coming in fast, shallow gasps, he turned her, brushing her hair away from the nape of her neck, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to the delicate skin there as he ever-so-slowly pulled at the tie holding the top of her dress secure.

It shouldn't have been quite this easy—learning a new lover, no matter how anticipated or wanted, always tended to bring with it a moment or two of awkwardness, an inadvertent clumsiness as bodies new to each other learned how to fit together. Not the case here. Learning Karen was like … magic.

Maybe it was because she was as close to an equal as he'd ever shared a bed with, he thought again, as his hands explored the newly bared contours of her torso, skimming up her abdomen, teasing the line of her sternum, before cupping her breasts in a way that made her arch and sigh, "Mmm… yes…" even as she reached up, gently shifting his head to the inviting spot where neck and shoulder met, clearly a favorite of hers, as she arched and sighed, yet again.

Her nervousness might have matched his, but in terms of knowing what she liked and knowing how to communicate it, no insecurity or hesitation, which allowed Carlton to relax, knowing there would be no guesswork, just the pure pleasure to be found in discovery. She was even kind enough to reach behind herself to the zipper at her waist, sliding it down and allowing her dress to pool around her ankles, her underwear, soundlessly following. And if her hands also happened to linger as they performed the task, brushing along the front of his slacks and his obvious arousal, well, he certainly wasn't going to complain.

Especially when they continued lingering, stroking his thighs which had gone rock hard at her initial caress, slowly moving up and in, caressing another rock hard part of him.

"Why Detective…" she murmured as she gently drew the zipper down, stroking him through his boxers.

"So help me, Karen," he gasped, "if you yank out that old chestnut of 'Is that a gun in your pocket—'"

"Not exactly what I want to yank out, Carlton," she replied with a melodic giggle. She giggled. Karen Vick giggled. At something _he'd_ said. _He'd_ made Karen Vick giggle. The thought of which left him both bemused and laughing as he turned her in his arms and gently pushed her to the bed, quickly shucking his clothes before falling over her, catching his weight on his arms.

They lay together, laughing, enjoying the sheer lightness of the moment until the laughter faded and the moment grew weighted with anticipation and the heady desire that only continued to grow between them. Brushing her hair back, he gazed down into her face, memorizing it, just in case, because this was _him_, for God's sake and wondrous things like this—like Karen Vick in his arms, about to let him make love to her—they didn't happen to him. And if this was the only time or even, God forbid, some holdover concussion-induced dream…

"Carlton, sweetheart—" Her fingertips traced the contours of his face, her thumb rubbing a slow sensual line along his mouth. "It's real. This is real."

He caught her other hand in his and brought it to his lips, lowering himself just far enough to feel the exquisite pressure of her breasts against his chest. "How'd you know?"

Her mouth curved in a smile so lovely, he felt compelled to lower his head and learn its shape and taste all over again. He kind of had a feeling that was something he'd never get tired of learning.

"Because I know you, Carlton," she murmured against his mouth, the movement and vibrations—the sheer emotion behind her words—sending fresh desire coursing through him. He had to—

"And you know me… so I know you know how badly I want you to make love to me—right now," she whispered into his mouth, the hand that had been on his face, tracing a slow, deliberate line along his shoulder, down his side, coming to rest on his hip as she rose, teasing him with the promise of more.

And if more was what she wanted…

Again, it was so seamless and easy—fitting together, his hips cradled within hers, her body arching to his as he lowered, feeling her body welcome his, a heated, silken embrace.

She sighed… he sighed… it was… dear _God_, it was... yeah…

Perfect.

And he never wanted it to end.


	13. Chapter 13

**Safety in Numbers**

Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in **psych**_**, **_not even a grain of sand in the playground. TPTB own everything, I own nothing, no infringement intended, just having some fun playing "What if…"

* * *

><p>"I'm hungry."<p>

"Still?" Dry humor underscored the single, slightly breathless word.

Collapsed alongside Carlton, Karen could barely muster the energy to elbow him. At least she could breathe now—mostly. For a while there, the function had eluded her.

"_I_ was promised dinner."

"_You_ were impatient."

"And _you_ were irresistible."

Expecting another volley in their repartee, she was surprised to be met with silence instead. Turning her head on the pillow, she found him gazing at her, the normally brilliant blue of his eyes rendered a muted silvery shade in the bedroom's shadows.

"What?"

"Irresistible?" His mouth thinned into a straight line as his brows drew together. "I mean, making you feel good was paramount, of course, and I realize it's been a while for each of us, but—"

A flash of annoyance prompted Karen to roll to her side and put her fingertips to his mouth which not only stilled the flood of words, but immediately softened the normally stern lines of his mouth into the sensuous curve with which she'd become intimately familiar over the past hour. Planned on getting even more intimate with along with the rest of his yes, _irresistible_ body.

Hopefully after some food.

And reassurance.

So contradictory, was Carlton. Arrogant and irascible living side-by-side with deep-seated shyness and insecurity. Capable of both selfish and selfless actions, oftentimes occurring within moments of each other

The self-assured lover giving way to the uncertain man who'd been hurt so often and so badly, he could barely allow himself five minutes of satisfaction. And who would, if she didn't stop him, retreat into the shell from which he'd warily watch. The quiet man, guarding himself until assured he could emerge without fear of further damage being inflicted.

Karen considered herself a reasonably even-keeled individual with the exception of arguing with her big sister. Even the most outrageous of Shawn Spencer's shenanigans didn't tend to throw her... much. She simply wouldn't be able to do her job effectively without being even-keeled. Which was why the red-tinged, slightly homicidal rage caught her by such surprise. In the span of seconds, she gave serious thought to initiating a thorough investigation into Carlton's personal background, hunting down every woman who'd ever contributed to driving him ever further into that protective shell—starting with his ex-wife—and lining them up for practice at the firing range.

As her overdeveloped sense of propriety began squawking in outrage, she silently scolded it to relax—she'd use rubber bullets…

Maybe.

Or, propriety whispered,… maybe her time would be better served chipping away at that damned shell—at least enough for him to realize that with her, he'd have no need of it.

_Which means you'd best take care, too. World of difference between Head Detective Lassiter and Carlton and you'd do well to remember that, missy._

Good advice, that.

"I don't use words I don't mean, Carlton" she said softly. Moving her hand to his cheek, she leaned in and kissed him, her tongue gently demanding entry he granted with a sigh even though his confusion remained a palpable thing. And as lovely as the kissing was, and oh _my_, was it lovely, especially pressed up against him, shoulders to toes, skin-to-skin, she knew it wouldn't suffice to convince him.

Detective Lassiter might be all about action and physical evidence, but Carlton—_Carlton—_would need the whole package. Words and actions backed by emotion and above all, honesty.

Regretfully drawing back, she studied his face, noting the confusion drawing his brows together, feeling the slight tremors in the muscles of his shoulders beneath her palms and in the hand resting on her hip.

"When I said irresistible, I meant it—and I think if I'd said it immediately before we made love, you wouldn't have had any trouble believing me, would you?"

His features relaxed, enough to allow her to lean into him again, undulating slightly simply to feel the pleasant drag of his hair-roughened skin against her smoother expanses.

Perhaps food _could_ wait, she thought, burrowing her head against his neck. Especially since Carlton was like a delicious buffet all on his own. Her tongue teased the hollow of his throat, savoring the slight saltiness of his skin as one of her hands lowered to the thigh resting over hers, nails scratching lightly as they trailed up toward his groin and his growing arousal.

His hands—those magical, incredibly sure hands—did their own exploring, one anchored in her hair, this thumb rubbing slow circles on the sensitive skin just beneath her ear while the other stroked up from her hip to briefly cup her breast, a teasing caress that left her whimpering with frustration when that hand moved to join the other in her hair.

Lifting her head, about to demand he resume—_immediately_, dammit—she froze instead, stunned by his expression.

Part confusion, part determination, and part something she couldn't quite define just yet—probably because it was coming from that deep, hidden place.

"You said making love." His voice was very quiet. "More than once."

Karen's heart hammered against her chest as she replied, "You said you want more." Though her words emerged every bit as quietly and trapped in that same netherworld between statement and question, there'd been no thought before she spoke, no real hesitation.

His eyes widened and even in the dim light, she could tell their silvery hue had begun shifting to the more intense blue that was so distinctly Carlton. "I did."

"And I think it's fair to assume you also don't say things you don't mean."

He shook his head. "Not about something like this, no."

"All right then. As far as I'm concerned, what we're doing—whether it's the actual physical act or you bringing me a cup of coffee or just brushing my hand when you hand me a file at the station—is making love." Her hands shook slightly as she lifted them, sinking her fingers into his surprisingly soft hair. "Maybe it's impossibly sentimental. Maybe it's too much, too soon, but I can't help it," she admitted softly, echoing his words from earlier in the evening. "It's how I feel."

In the silence following the admission that was surprising, even to her, he did nothing but study her with a wide-eyed stare, mouth parted slightly. Against her chest, she felt the rapid rise and fall of his and even the hammering of his heart, as he gently pulled her closer—so close, a breath of air couldn't have found space between them.

Slowly, Carlton lowered his head, allowing her to cradle him close. His "Karen," was muffled by her shoulder, but still clear enough for her to hear everything he couldn't quite say just yet.

It was okay. She couldn't quite say it all either. Not yet.

In the meantime, actions would simply have to speak louder than words. And food could definitely wait.


	14. Chapter 14

**Safety in Numbers**

Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in **psych**_**, **_not even a grain of sand in the playground. TPTB own everything, I own nothing, no infringement intended, just having some fun playing "What if…"

* * *

><p>The weeks that followed were…<p>

Were…

Hell, Carlton didn't even have words for what they were. Everything he came up with seemed too damned inadequate.

That first night had lasted forever and not long enough, ending only as the silvery-gray fingers of dawn began creeping in through the windows. She'd urged him to stay in bed as she dressed, saying she wanted that to be her last image of him before she left, so she could hold it in her mind's eye as she went to sleep.

Not that she'd gotten much sleep that day, since he'd asked her to call and let him know she'd made it home safely and when she did, they'd remained on the phone, talking in hushed tones about everything and nothing until he heard Iris come bounding in the room with an exuberant, "Time to wake up, Mommy!"

Damn, but that had caught him by surprise—not so much Iris' interruption, but how intensely the desire to _be _there had struck him. To lie warm in bed with Karen, talking about everything and nothing until Iris decreed it time to wake up, time to have breakfast, time to have adventures, even if it was nothing more adventuresome than Saturday cartoons while scarfing his secret vice Lucky Charms straight from the box. It was the type of family scenario he'd never had growing up, that he'd harbored dreams of one day having, and had, when he and Victoria had finally divorced, ruthlessly shoved to the corner of his mind reserved for "Idiot, why do you ever bother imagining it's possible for a shmuck like you?" dreams.

Karen made him feel like maybe, those dreams, they might not be so impossible after all. Which could also probably be filed under "Idiot, why do you ever bother imagining it's possible for a shmuck like you?" But Karen made him _feel_, period. She made him dream. And if those dreams were maybe unfolding with the impossible speed of those time-lapse photography films of growing plants they used to show in tenth grade biology, well, it didn't mean he had to act on them or even verbalize them.

Yet.

He'd just hold them close and quietly hope. He was damned practiced at it, after all.

After hanging up the phone Saturday morning, resigned to nothing more than phone calls until he could see her on Monday when the work week, with its necessity of maintaining the Detective Lassiter/Chief Vick divide would present its own sucktastic sort of torture, she'd surprised him on Sunday by showing up, informing him Iris had a playdate for most of the afternoon.

It wasn't until after, lying on his sofa since they hadn't even made it to the bedroom, that she confessed to having arranged the playdate out of sheer desperation. She hadn't wanted to wait until Monday to see him. Didn't want to wait potentially another week to touch him.

Hadn't wanted to wait to _be_ with him.

And hope experienced a growth spurt that even desperate hissing from his cynical internal voice of "it's a _bastard_," couldn't slow down.

The next weekend, Iris with her father, they'd spent holed up in his condo, thoroughly uninterested in anything but each other.

Two weeks later, plans for a similar weekend were obliterated when they were caught up in a ritual cult killing case that left them unable to do much more than catch a few stolen glances as they feverishly worked nearly seventy-two hours straight. Afterward, too exhausted to even be jubilant that they'd solved the case and _he'd_ been the one to discover the key piece of evidence that led them to the sick son of a bitch without any "help" from Spencer, he'd made his way home and into the hottest shower he could stand, trying, as usual, to wash away any stink of evil that might be sticking to him.

At first when he'd felt Karen pressed up against his back, he'd thought it nothing more than a product of his sleep-deprived imagination. Wanting her there with him so damn badly. But she'd been real—gently washing his body, letting him wash hers before they collapsed in bed, silently holding each other. He'd been more grateful for her in that moment than he'd ever been for anything else in his life. That she was there—understanding what cases like this took out of him. Understanding why he'd get up, morning after morning, and do it all over again. Not hating him because of what he had to do.

After sleeping away most of the day, they'd woken and still cloaked in silence, had made love before she had to leave to go pick up Iris from her father's. And again, Carlton had felt that intensely deep sense of _want_… to be there when Karen returned home with Iris, to ask about her weekend, to have evidence that what he was doing, what her mother was doing, had meaning and importance, because it was for her.

And again, he'd felt the jabs from that corner of his psyche, warning, _too soon… too soon…_ and softer and more insidious still, _maybe never…_

But still, he hoped, because Karen made him believe in hope.

Two weeks later, he surprised her with a weekend at the Hotel del Coronado. Beautiful, historic, romantic, rumored to be haunted, and far enough away from Santa Barbara there was no danger they'd be seen by anyone they knew. And there, for the first time, they truly got to be Karen and Carlton—two people, two lovers—openly enjoying each other.

A week later, she surprised _him_—inviting him to her house for dinner—with Iris. Allowed him entry into that part of her life. Quietly explained that she'd been telling Iris about him. That he was someone very special to her.

A small step, really.

Enormous significance.

And hope bloomed with mad abandon, completely obliterating the nasty, insidious voices for the first time in his life.

Which was, of course, when they decided to invade his brilliant garden with the deadly stealth of a poisonous snake.


	15. Chapter 15

**Safety in Numbers**

Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in **psych**_**, **_not even a grain of sand in the playground. TPTB own everything, I own nothing, no infringement intended, just having some fun playing "What if…"

* * *

><p>"You're sure about this?"<p>

Never shifting his gaze from the target, Carlton responded with a curt, "Yes."

"Seriously? After what—three months?"

Carlton's focus never wavered. "More than six years if you want to get technical. What's your point?"

"Three months that you've been together, if you want to get _technical_, Detective." Gibson's reflection joined Carlton's in the polished glass case. "It's just a pretty big step is all."

"It is and it isn't. It doesn't mean it's something that's going to happen tomorrow—I just want her to know how I feel." Carlton tried to be subtle as he wiped his palms down the sides of his slacks.

"You think she doesn't?" Gibson's reflection grinned as he shook his head. "Brother, I've seen the way she looks at you. And vice versa. Trust me, she knows. Honestly, I don't know how the hell you guys have managed to fly under the radar for as long as you have."

Carlton lifted a shoulder. "Work is work. We have our roles and we play them. And frankly, the people closest to us who might notice are too wrapped up in their own lives to pay us any attention."

Hell, as far as anyone at the department knew, he was still dating Marlowe. And while Karen had never resumed wearing her ring, prompting some break room gossip and concern from Carlton, it had died down surprisingly quickly. As Karen joked, she was just too boring for anyone to care about.

He'd had a good time showing her just how boring he thought she was, not to mention, how much he cared, which left them both exhausted, but when it came down to it, he knew what she meant. What had really thrown him was her primary concern—_him_. Technically, her marital status had long been a matter of public record for anyone who cared to check. That she kept it private was her damned business. The bigger issue had to do with their positions within the department, especially given his history. She wanted the playing field as level as possible and to be able to argue from a position of power should a fight become necessary.

Even after three months, the sensation of being so cared for tended to catch him by surprise.

"Yeah, but considering all the off-time you spend together—"

Again Carlton shrugged. "Our interests don't tend to intersect with theirs."

"Code for you guys don't get out much."

"We go out with you and your latest flavor of the week."

"And it's like pulling teeth to get you to agree." In the reflection, Gib's grin morphed into an outright leer. "Face it—you two are still in horny teenager mode. It's cute. It really is."

Carlton sighed. "Why did I ask you to come with me again?"

"Because you value my opinion and impeccable taste?"

Both true, but also because despite his absolute surety in taking this step, it didn't hurt to have a little reassurance by his side and for all his ribbing and teasing commentary, the fact that Gib had agreed to accompany him on this errand was reassurance enough for him.

"May I help you sir?"

Carlton glanced up long enough to take in the impeccably dressed saleswoman before he returned his attention to the case. "I'd like to see that one," he replied, tapping the glass surface.

The woman unlocked the case, babbling something about what a lovely selection while simultaneously turning her attention to Gib and asking if there was anything _he_ was interested in, making it clear it wasn't just the merchandise she'd be willing to show him. As Gib replied in his usual smooth, easy manner, Carlton suppressed the urge to smack one or the both of them and resisted drawing his weapon so that they could get _on_ with it already.

Once the babbling ninny had the velvet tray out, however, she turned coolly efficient, allowing Carlton to relax. At least until she carefully pried the ring free and handed it to him to inspect more closely.

"Platinum with a Burmese ruby solitaire. Stunning example of Edwardian craftsmanship—couldn't ask for better quality, really."

Beside him, Gib spoke—he may have been asking about the ring, may have been asking what the saleswoman was doing after work—Carlton didn't know and didn't care. His entire focus was on the ring he held—a central ruby flanked by small diamonds set in a filigree pattern. Fiery and delicate in one package.

Perfect.

He elbowed Gib. "What do you think?"

Gib turned to face him with a lazy half smile.

"That you're kind of adorable when you're ass over teakettle in love."

Seriously, he was going to strangle the man one of these days.

"Gibson—"

His erstwhile best friend held up a hand stopping him before he could growl out an appropriate threat.

"Truth?"

Carlton swallowed hard, knowing Gibson wouldn't spare him. "Truth." Dear Lord, he hoped he wasn't screwing up. What if she hated it? What if she hated him? What if—

"Jesus, Carl, _relax_, already—" Gib shook his head with an expression that made it clear he knew exactly what Carlton had been thinking. "The absolute truth is you could give the woman a ring out of a gumball machine and she'd say yes. Something like that?" He nodded at the ring Carlton was hanging on to for dear life.

"I'd go ahead and lay in supplies for a long weekend."


	16. Chapter 16

**Safety in Numbers**

Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in **psych**_**, **_not even a grain of sand in the playground. TPTB own everything, I own nothing, no infringement intended, just having some fun playing "What if…"

**AN:** For those of you who may have read when it first went up, there have been a few tweaks down near the end to make Shawn a bit more... Shawn-like.

* * *

><p>"You're awfully quiet."<p>

Carlton smiled as they continued walking hand-in-hand, their bare feet leaving faint impressions in the cool damp sand, but remained silent, a gentle tightening of his fingers around hers, his only response.

Not that this was a new thing for him. Or them, as a couple. As much as they loved talking to each other, they were just as comfortable being quiet together, the ability to communicate with a glance or a touch having come easily to them. But lately, it seemed as if there had been an extra layer to his quiet—a certain watchful stillness.

Karen didn't necessarily get a bad sense from it—more a sense of… waiting. She did worry, though, that part of him—despite their bond strengthening with every day, despite the utter _rightness_ of them—remained frightened. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because the other shoe was inevitable, wasn't it? Wasn't it?

_Patience_, she reminded herself. An abundance of patience and reassurance and desire. They'd already come so much further in three months than she might have ever expected. He was hers, she knew, and hopefully, he understood that she was his—in every way that mattered. And if he didn't, then she simply needed to keep proving it to him until he got it through his thick, stubborn, Irish skull.

She was pulled from her thoughts by his tug on her hand—turning her head, her breath caught at the absolute brilliance of his eyes, reflecting the blue of the ocean and something more. Something that deepened the blue into an endless sea of possibility and promise.

"I love you," he said quietly. Unsmiling. Certain, but with that ever-present caution lurking just behind the words, ready to snatch them back and hide them away in the safe, protected part of him where he'd guarded his heart and his emotions for so long.

Karen closed her eyes, barely breathing. Opening them, she smiled and lifted her free hand to his face, her stomach tightening at the sheer relief that lightened his features.

"I wondered if you'd ever say it."

A half-smile relaxed the tight line of his mouth into the sensual shape she so loved. "It's kind of terrifying," he confessed.

"Yeah." She turned to face him more fully.

"But come on, you had to know." Those blue eyes were imploring, begging her to understand.

She took a step closer, her chest brushing his and sparking the desire that lived between them like a live wire. "I hoped," she said softly, allowing her own uncertainties to surface.

One arm circled her waist loosely as his free hand cradled her neck, a warm support. "God, Karen, how could you even doubt it?"

"It's kind of terrifying," she echoed, "feeling so intensely. You worry it can sometimes cloud perspective." She rested her hands on the warm skin of his waist, just beneath the untucked tails of the button-down worn over khakis. "So yeah—I hoped." Shrugging, she dropped her gaze, focusing the strong line of his throat, the open collar of his shirt with its revealing glimpses of his chest. More softly she admitted, "Was maybe just a little afraid to believe."

A long sigh escaped, his body shuddering against hers.

"I love you, Karen," he said, the words quiet, meant for just their ears and the incoming waves. "More than I've ever loved anyone before." The ocean breezes wreaked havoc with his hair, leaving it in short, spiky waves of black and silver and like her, the cuffs of his khakis rolled up to protect against the waves that teased their feet as they'd walked. Altogether, he gave the impression of a happy, relaxed man, if not for the tension making his hands tremble and the slight shadow lurking deep within the fathomless blue, almost undetectable, unless one really knew him.

She liked to think she did.

"I love you, too." Her hands slid further along his waist to his back, relishing the feel of smooth skin and muscle and never ending warmth beneath her palms. Cheek pressed against his chest she laughed lightly. "God, the two of us."

"Yeah, I know."

"This is crazy, Carlton. How did it happen?"

"I'll be damned if I know." His answering chuckle rumbled beneath her cheek and pooled warmth low in her belly. "But ain't it great?"

Surprised, Karen leaned back in his arms, certain he'd hold her steady and that, too, was cause for wonder. When had she ever trusted so implicitly and on so many levels? Professionally, personally—and most of all, with her heart. Carlton Lassiter stood in her arms, bathed in sunlight that lit his eyes to an ocean blue and touched his fair skin with warm shades of gold, and held her heart.

And all of a sudden, she wanted him to hold the rest of her—more closely and with no barriers. Rising on tiptoe, she brushed her mouth against his. "I love you," she whispered, just for the pleasure of saying the words once more.

"I love you, too." He angled his head, kissing her more deeply, his tongue stroking hers in maddeningly sensual fashion.

With a light bite to his lower lip that made him gasp and insinuate his thigh between hers in response she murmured, "Take me home."

But rather than grabbing her hand and making a beeline for the parking lot, as she might have expected, he instead drew back, and though his arms remained tight around her, she had the strangest feeling he was leaning on her for support.

"In a minute." A shaky breath shuddered through his lean body. "I actually had a reason for wanting to come out here today."

"What is it, sweetheart?" she said gently, afraid to spook him.

Karen watched as his teeth sank into his lower lip—the endearing gesture a dead giveaway of deep thought and consideration. Too many times during the work week she'd see him hard at work on a file or case notes, those two, straight white teeth worrying the shallow curve of his lower lip, and she'd have to hie herself off to the restroom where she'd splash cold water on her face until the moment passed.

_Lot_ of moments, the last three months. If it got much worse, she'd have to resort to hosing herself down in the car detailing bay.

"I… I love you," he said again in a wondering tone that suggested he was still half-shocked at finding himself able to say it at all.

She could relate.

"I love you, too." She smiled and stroked his chest soothingly, certain now what he was working up to. Certain she wanted to take this step with this man. "So much."

Grasping her hands in his, he gazed at her, his expression open and full of love and she found herself thinking, _never..._

Never would she have expected to see him like this and that it was for her? She felt as if she'd been given the most incredible gift—one she planned to hold close and treasure.

"Karen, I—"

"I'm telling you, Gus, that's Lassie's car in the parking lot."

"And so what if it is? Why'd we have to stop?"

"Come on—Lassie? At the beach? Perhaps in Speedos? This could be an event of epic proportions. One that demands photographic evidence."

"First off, Shawn, Lassiter isn't the type of guy to ever wear Speedos and second, I'm more than a little disturbed that you even thought that and thank you very much for burning _that_ image into my brain."

"C'mon, Gus, don't be the crispy burnt edges of the corner brownie."

Karen couldn't breathe—not because their secret was about to be blown open in the _worst_ possible way, but because of the expression on Carlton's face.

The lovely, loving openness from moments earlier had disappeared, leaving behind a blankness echoed by the sun slipping behind a bank of clouds. As the voices drew closer, the color leeched from his face and eyes, both turning an ashy gray.

"It's okay," she murmured, uncertain if he could even hear her. "It's okay, honey—it'll be okay, I promise." But she was talking to his back, as he spun, making certain to keep her shielded behind him.

"See, Gus—see? I _told_ you it was Lassie! Not in Speedos, but it's unmistakably him. And unless his mutant powers have erupted, there's a pair of lady legs behind him."

"Spencer… Guster." Carlton's voice was calm and steady. Too calm. Karen gave a small prayer of thankfulness that he didn't have a weapon on him. "As you can see, I'm here. At the beach. With a woman. Happy? Good. Now go away."

"Oh, come on, Lassie—" Spencer's voice—as ingratiatingly annoying as ever—rang out, startling a nearby seagull into squawking angrily in response. "Why all the secrecy, man? I thought you weren't ashamed of your jailbird girlfriend. Unless, of course, that's not your jailbird girlfriend hiding behind you. Which beg the questions of who is it you're hiding and _why_ would you be hiding them, which naturally leads to an answer of someone you clearly shouldn't be with and dude, don't you ever _learn_?"

"Mr. Spencer, that is _enough_."

Karen wasn't sure who looked more shocked. Guster, half-eaten churro dropping to the sand, Spencer, gaping like a landed trout, his own churro twisted in his fist, or Carlton, eyes wide, two bright spots of color high on his otherwise pale cheeks. It would have been laughable if it wasn't so heartbreaking.

Damn them.

Damn them and their impeccably terrible timing.

She half wished _she_ had her weapon.

Guster recovered first, sort of, stammering, "Chief Vick, we didn't… uh… of course… um… we…" clearly having no idea what he was talking about and why would he? Beside him, Spencer's avid hazel gaze narrowed, taking them in, obviously making note of their casual appearance and Carlton's protective stance.

Hell, why not make it easy? Very deliberately, Karen reached out and took Carlton's hand in hers, suppressing a flinch at the cold clamminess of his skin against hers.

"Not his former jailbird girlfriend," she said with cool, deliberate precision. "Simply his girlfriend. Gentlemen," she said with the nod perfected over years of dismissing meetings as she gently tugged at Carlton's hand, leading him up the beach toward the car.

While Karen could sense him breathing easier with each step they took away from Spencer and Guster, she was worried because the lovely openness? Gone. Completely. In its place, a tense misery she was startled to realize she hadn't seen in months.

After a silent drive home, he walked her to her front door, but made it clear he wouldn't be coming in.

"Come on—" she urged, "stay for dinner. Iris's father should be dropping her off soon and you know she'd love to see you." Because her daughter and Carlton had forged their own unique friendship in the past several weeks, the little girl charming him much in the way she had since the moment he'd first held her.

His brows drew together, his blue eyes clouding over. "I don't think I'd be very good company tonight."

A wave of exasperation washed over her. "Good God, Carlton, this isn't about being good company. This is about for better and for worse." She swallowed hard and quietly added, "About me being here for you. Always." She took his hand in hers, lacing their fingers together. "Come on in. Stay for dinner. Stay… tonight. Please?"

A step they'd yet to take, staying together at her place with Iris in residence. But she was trying to let him know she understood what he'd been about to say at the beach—was trying to communicate that her answer was _yes_. Would always be yes. She needed him to understand she would always be there for him.

Those two nitwits weren't simply dealing with "Lassie" anymore. Or even with Chief Vick.

They were dealing with Carlton and Karen.

With _them_.

And if Shawn Spencer thought she'd just sit back and allow him to run roughshod over _them_ without consequence, then his psychic abilities needed to be called into serious question. She made a mental note to double check the status of Henry's insurance policy. Make sure his coverage on Shawn was up to date.

Just in case.

With his free hand he pushed her hair back from her face, his hooded gaze so heated, she found herself unconsciously leaning into him, like a plant seeking the sun.

"God, you are so beautiful." Leaning forward, he kissed her, gently at first, then gradually deeper, their bodies effortlessly molding to each other and for a moment… a heavenly, suspended moment, she thought he was going to stay.

Then he was drawing away, the spell broken as the closed, shuttered expression turning his eyes a flat, slate blue made it clear as much as he might want to, he wouldn't stay. Whatever internal battle he was waging, he had to wage on his own. And as much as it hurt—she had to let him. But she couldn't let him go without the knowledge that she _was _there. And that wasn't about to change.

"It'll be okay, you know. We'll get through this just fine."

He took a deep breath and smiled, the shadows clearing, and God, he was so damned lovely when he was open and relaxed. When he was hers. "I know. It'll all be fine."

She cupped his cheek in her hand. "I love you, Carlton Lassiter. Always."

"I love you, too, Karen." He smiled, his fingertips ghosting a caress along her cheek as he stepped away. "Always."


	17. Chapter 17

**Safety in Numbers**

Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in **psych**_**, **_not even a grain of sand in the playground. TPTB own everything, I own nothing, no infringement intended, just having some fun playing "What if…"

**AN: **A little chapterlet/interlude-y sort of bit. Kind of demanded that it be short. There will be more very soon.

* * *

><p>Badge in its leather holder, polished to military brilliance.<p>

Glock, gleaming with the shine of having been recently cleaned, placed with deliberate precision, magazine laid alongside.

A neatly typed letter.

And resting atop the letter, a small envelope, her name inscribed on the front in a heartbreakingly familiar block script.

By the door, a broken coffee mug sat in a pool of khaki-colored liquid while Karen sat at her desk, staring blindly at the items she'd discovered upon walking into her office first thing this morning.

Even the persistent rapping couldn't completely rouse her from her unblinking contemplation. After a cursory glance at the door, Karen huffed a silent laugh and returned to studying the items laid out so neatly. With such care and deliberation.

Cop to the core.

"Chief—oh my God, Chief Vick? What's the matter? Why—"

Through a fog Karen heard the door close and footsteps as O'Hara approached. "Chief, what's going on?" The detective's voice was very soft and certain. Gentle, but with an underlying steel. Many times Karen had heard the young woman employ the same tone with shell-shocked witnesses. Many times she'd witnessed how that tone engendered trust.

All those times she'd admired O'Hara's approach. Had congratulated herself on pairing the younger detective with the more abrasive Lassiter, wanting her sensitivity to rub off on him and his toughness to rub off on her.

It'd worked.

Almost too damned well.

Now, though, she found herself wondering how often witnesses also wanted to throw things in response to that soothing, gentle tone. She herself was torn between both responses with an added dose of wanting to scream and maybe break down in tears.

Which she would _not_ do. She wouldn't.

"What's going on?"

Another laugh, this one faintly audible, escaped. "You mean for once Mr. Spencer didn't tell all?"

"Shawn?" O'Hara's face hove into view, looking to Karen's wavering vision as if it were floating, discombobulated, like a Thanksgiving Day parade balloon. "I haven't talked to him all weekend. I was down in L.A. visiting a friend from college and didn't get back until late last night. Chief Vick—what the hell's going on and _why_ are Carlton's sidearm, badge, and—"

A gasp as O'Hara obviously took in the typed letter. "A letter of resignation on your desk?"

Karen wasn't sure whether to be relieved that O'Hara didn't know and would get to hear it from her rather than Spencer, or concerned, because God only knew _who_ the idiot had seen fit to tell. There was no way he'd kept this to himself. For him, this was the sort of information that not only demanded to be shared—it needed to be broadcast. Perhaps blazed on a billboard along the PCH.

"Sit down," she said dully, adding a faint, "please."

Physically shaking her head in an attempt to dispel the fog that had enveloped her from the moment she walked into the office, she watched as O'Hara settled herself in a chair. As Karen took a deep breath and folded her hands on the blotter, she experienced a flash of déjà vu, recalling the last time she and O'Hara had been in these positions.

So similar.

Yet everything so different.

Unlike that time, she found it near-impossible to begin, because she knew once she did—once she uttered the words—their world would irrevocably change, their cocoon of privacy breached. For the first time, the honest desire to cry overtook the shock and the anger, sparking hot at the backs of her eyes and clogging her throat.

"Chief?"

Karen glanced up to find O'Hara staring at her, fine blonde brows drawn together.

"Please—he's my partner."

She tried—she really did. Fought hard, with all her considerable will—but despite it all, a lone tear still managed to escape as she finally spoke.

"Mine, too."


	18. Chapter 18

**Safety in Numbers**

Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in **psych**_**, **_not even a grain of sand in the playground. TPTB own everything, I own nothing, no infringement intended, just having some fun playing "What if…"

I am making a few suppositions in this chapter about how Karen was informed of Carlton and Lucinda's relationship and its subsequent dissolution that are plausible, but as far as I can recall, not necessarily canon. Then again, at this point, what is? Onward, crimefighters.

* * *

><p>After quietly sitting through the entire story, admirably masking her shock at the dual revelations that her boss had been divorced for over a year and involved with her partner for more than three months, O'Hara had quickly cleaned up the mess from the spilled coffee and left, with assurances she'd return shortly.<p>

Clearly, she had something in mind, but frankly, Karen didn't care. The only thing she cared about—more accurately, the only person—had disappeared seemingly without a trace. If O'Hara had gone off imagining she'd find him cuddling a bottle of Jack at his condo or working out his frustrations at the firing range or holed up in any of the other places she might have thought he'd retreat to, she'd be disappointed. Karen already _knew_ he wasn't at any of those places. He wasn't anywhere nearby. The sense she'd had since they first got together—of being able to _feel_ his nearness, even if they weren't physically in the same place—was gone.

Now she got what people meant when they said they felt as if a piece of themselves was missing.

Except this was worse. She just felt as if there was a void—a space where Carlton needed to be and he wasn't and it was cold and empty and just… _wrong_.

And it was pissing her off. Big time.

"But he left you that note?"

Karen nodded in response, staring down at the envelope, her name written in strong, black lines, then to Gibson sitting beside her on the sofa. As soon as O'Hara had left, she'd picked up the phone and called him, figuring if Carlton had contacted anyone—if anyone might have any idea what was going on in his head—it would be Riley Gibson.

The string of epithets the good doctor had let loose with once she laid out the bare bones of the situation made it clear that no… he didn't have a goddamned clue what was going on in Carlton's head either—but he'd be more than happy to beat the sense God gave a goat into him.

Karen told him to get in line.

Next thing she knew, however, he'd appeared in her office, informing her his schedule was cleared for the day and he was prepared to clear it for the week if necessary.

And in that moment she got how the very dissimilar Carlton and Riley had remained friends for so long, because if there was anything Carlton was in massive possession of and valued in others, it was loyalty. Clearly, a trait Riley also possessed in spades.

"What'd the note say, Karen?" A slight grin crossed his face. "I mean, the non-pervy parts that you're willing to share."

Despite the situation, Karen couldn't help but laugh, even as she shook her head at Riley. She had a feeling that, simply by virtue of knowing Carlton as well as he did, he had a pretty good idea the gist of the note's contents. He simply wanted to make sure there weren't any other potential curveballs with which they needed to deal.

"It's pretty much as you might guess," she replied, hoarse with the effort of holding her emotions in check. "He's retiring, effective immediately, so that my job won't be jeopardized. He's going to stay away a while to let the furor die down, but—"

"He's planning on coming back," Riley finished when her voice trailed off.

Pressing her lips together, she nodded and swallowed hard, those damnable emotions threatening to break free.

"At least he hasn't completely lost his goddamned mind," Riley muttered as he shoved a hand through his hair with an exasperated sigh.

"Not _now_, but Riley, you know how he is," Karen argued. "The more time goes by, the more he'll convince himself the longer he stays away, the better it is for everyone involved and…"

Again she faltered, her voice fading as the terror and anger that had taken root in her stomach from the moment she read his words solidified into an acidic, roiling mass.

"Don't, Karen." He put his hand over hers, his pale blue gaze holding hers. "Maybe once upon a time he would've done exactly that—just disappear and think it for the best—but I honestly can't believe he'd do that to you. That man loves you in ways even I never imagined him capable of."

"I know," she said, her voice sounding faint, even to her own ears. "And I feel the same, Riley—I do, and dammit, I can't believe he didn't trust me—"

"_You_, he trusts," Riley broke in. "With his damned life." His normally mild voice took on an edge as he added, "It's the rest of the world he doesn't trust worth a damn and can you really blame him? Carl's a cynic by nature and he's been burned too many times for him to feel otherwise."

Before Karen could voice her wholehearted agreement—not to mention vent her spleen at a world that would have done this to _her_ Carlton—a commotion sounded just outside her door. A moment later, a sharp knock was followed by the door swinging wide, a visibly furious O'Hara dragging Shawn Spencer into her office by his ear—literally.

"Dammit, Jules, I _said_ I would come in! Voluntarily, even. You can—_ouch_—let… ow, ow, ow, did you just _twist_ my ear?"

With a shove, O'Hara pushed him fully into the office before closing the door on the curious onlookers gathering outside the office with a decisive snap.

Rubbing at his reddened ear, Spencer muttered, somewhat petulantly, "Besides, I already told you I didn't _do_ anything."

"You honestly think that intruding on Lassiter's private time isn't _doing_ anything?"

Karen watched, open-mouthed as a clenched-fist O'Hara stalked toward her boyfriend. In a tiny corner of her mind, she registered _finally. T_he O'Hara who cared about her partner—who had his back—had returned. With a vengeance, apparently.

"Come on, it was Lassie at the _beach_, Jules, " he protested. "How was I supposed to resist ? For that matter, how the hell was I supposed to know it was the Chief he was going all _From Here to Eternity_ with?"

The unmistakable sound of skin cracking against skin echoed through the office with a sharp report. Spencer stood, open-mouthed, a handprint rapidly reddening on his cheek as Juliet stood in front of him, eyes blazing.

"Don't you think there's something the tiniest bit _wrong_ with the idea that it's an impulse you should have had difficulty resisting, Shawn? Not to mention, you weren't supposed to know because it's _his_ damned business—his and the Chief's and no one else's. My God, what the hell _is_ it with you and Carlton's private life?"

"Who knew he actually _had_ one worth keeping private?"

"Karen, tempting, but no—"

Karen met Riley's gaze, then followed it down to where his hands rested over hers, keeping them, and Carlton's Glock and its magazine, pinned to her desk. How she'd gotten to the desk from the sofa, she had no clue. All she knew was Spencer, in inimitable Spencer fashion, was yet again attempting to justify completely unjustifiable actions and just… no.

_No_, dammit.

Enough was enough.

"Well, well, well…" Riley drawled with an arched eyebrow glance in Spencer's direction. "So you're the dickhead."

An unexpected laugh bubbled out of Karen, both at Riley's succinct assessment and Spencer's second slack-jawed expression in as many minutes, relaxing her enough to allow Riley to uncurl her fingers from the weapon and lead her back to the sofa.

As he urged her to sit, he shifted his gaze to O'Hara, softly saying, "And you're the partner."

She nodded as she crossed to the desk and moved Carlton's gun to one of the drawers. Karen smiled faintly as she met the younger woman's gaze. Not completely inaccessible, but would require an extra step should she once again feel the need to reach for it.

Wise move.

"Dickhead?" Spencer's voice was incredulous and unless Karen was completely imagining things, more than a little hurt. "Is that what Lassie calls me?"

"No… that's my own little personal pet name for you, based on the tales Carl's shared over the years." Riley crossed his arms and leveled a stare at the other man. "Although, considering the stunts you've pulled and the fact that you refer to him by a dog's name, could you really blame him if he did refer to you as dickhead?"

"Come on, it's a term of endearment. Lassie knows that."

"Come _on_, does he really?" Riley shot back, mimicking Spencer's tone so perfectly, Karen felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

"Obviously, you're a master at justification, but I suspect even you can't bring yourself to buy that load of horseshit."

"Hey, I _like_ the guy, okay? I've put myself on the line a hell of a lot of times for him—has he told you that?" With a huff, Spencer threw himself into one of the armchairs, arms crossed over his chest.

"As a matter of fact, he has." Riley eased himself down to the sofa beside Karen. "He's told me about the times your work has helped him and Juliet solve cases, much as it irritates the hell out of him. He's even told me he respects your abilities, even though he damn sure doesn't believe you're psychic." Riley snorted in disgust.

"Bet you think that balances out all the times you've interfered and damn near ruined cases, right? Think it makes up for all the times you've tried to kill his reputation and with it, his career." He abruptly turned to Karen. "What do you recall about Lucinda Barry?"

"His former partner?" she asked, looking between Carlton's best friend and the man who'd been the most constant and painful thorn in his side. "You mean about their… relationship?"

Riley nodded. "How'd you find out about it?"

"Carlton told me they'd been discovered," she said, remembering how he'd come into her office, by himself, and confessed to a relationship with his partner; said he was prepared to take full consequences for his actions.

Shocked, she'd had no choice but to suspend him for two weeks without pay, mandate sessions with the department psychiatrist, and despite his insistence it should be him, had had Detective Barry transferred out. There had been no question in Karen's mind at the time that it was the correct choice. Yes, he was a pain in her ass—she knew he didn't like her or the fact that she'd swooped in and taken what he'd seen as "his" job—but he _was_ Head Detective and despite Spencer's not-so-subtle putdowns, a damned fine cop, while Barry, by comparison, had been relatively green.

Even then, Carlton Lassiter had been irreplaceable. For different reasons, of course, but she simply couldn't envision the department without him.

"Yeah, but did he tell you _how_ they got busted?"

Karen bit the inside of her cheek, desperately trying to remember and feeling as if she was missing something… Pregnancy had rendered her brain a bit spotty on things, but something like _this—_

"He said some uniforms found out," she said, details from that long ago conversation slowly resurfacing.

"Because he—" Riley said with a nod toward a glowering Spencer, "outted them during one of his 'psychic' visions." His intonation made it clear he also shared Carlton's skepticism towards the other man's abilities. "And he didn't say they were dating or in a relationship—nope, just blurted out that they were sleeping together. Like it was something dirty. In front of Carl's subordinates."

Riley turned to face Karen. His voice soft he said, "I know we're both well aware he's far from perfect and that he hasn't always been great with his colleagues, but no one deserves that, Karen. He was in a really bad place at that time and he honestly liked Lucinda. After Victoria, she was good to him and he needed that."

Karen nodded, a lump in her throat, recalling again how Carlton had stood before her, pale, unsmiling, and had essentially confessed to having screwed up. Never once had he tried to defer blame to Barry or anyone other than himself. Never _once_ had he mentioned Spencer.

"What's worse is that dickhead over there couldn't seem to let it go."

At Riley's words, Spencer's glower faded as he began to look vaguely ill.

"What do you mean?" Karen glanced between the two men and was grateful yet again that O'Hara had had the foresight to move Carlton's weapon. Yes, the Hippocratic Oath decreed "First do no harm," but judging by the expression on Riley's face, his position as a doctor was currently secondary to that of friend.

"I mean that, for reasons known only to himself, he felt the need to bring it up again in front of the Attorney General's family."

"_What_?"

"I remember that," O'Hara interjected quietly. "The engagement ring case, Chief—Shawn introduced me to the AG's family as Carlton's new partner and—" She stopped short, leaving the rest unsaid, not that Karen needed it spelled out.

A wash of color flooded the younger woman's face as she shook her head. "God, Shawn," she said more softly. "You know, I made an ass of myself to Carlton because of that?"

"Jules—"

"I was so damned smug, informing him that I didn't believe in interoffice relationships—so certain _he'd _ be the one to hit on me when you were the one doing it all along. I flat out asked him if the rumors about him and Lucinda were true and you know what he said?"

Spencer shook his head while beside Karen, Riley sighed, clearly already familiar with the story. She felt a sick churning in her stomach. How much had transpired between Shawn Spencer and Carlton that he'd kept quiet all these years? So certain no one would give any sort of credence to his complaints. And the sad part is, he was right.

And yet…

He'd nevertheless still allowed himself to take a risk. A huge one that under normal circumstances would have been terrifying enough but with his history—_especially_ with what she was just now learning—must have seemed unimaginable. But he'd taken it and once he had—he'd committed, completely, his first concern always for _her_.

The churning increased as O'Hara resumed speaking.

"He said nothing, Shawn." She sighed. "Said he wouldn't dignify the question with a response."

Spencer huffed, clearly revving himself back into defensive mode. "Okay, yeah, it was crappy of me, but we weren't exactly on the best of terms back then. He was doing everything he could to keep me out of cases. And are we forgetting that he hooked _me_ up to a polygraph after he found out about us? Not to mention, you—his partner."

O'Hara's jaw dropped open. "No, I haven't forgotten, but did he make a point of outting us in front of witnesses or our colleagues? No, you managed that all on your own. Carlton kept what he knew to himself and only lashed out because of how I treated him. And I treated him the way _I_ did because of _you_."

"He was attempting to _discredit_ me, Jules."

"And what the hell would you call what you've tried to do to him? Time and again you've attempted to discredit him, make a fool of him. Done your damnedest to take what's important from him."

Spencer glared at Riley. "Listen, I don't know who the hell you think you are—"

"I'm his friend," Riley responded easily, not moving a muscle although Karen could sense the coiled tension in the other man.

"And I'll be the first to say he can be a real son of a bitch and he's got more faults than the San Andreas, but he's not an inherently cruel man and he for damned sure doesn't deserve all the shit you've rained down on his head over the years."

He turned his attention to Juliet. "Why'd you bring him here? Come to think of it, why are you even _with _him?" Riley's scathing glance raked over Spencer. "Sure, by all accounts he's smart as hell, but he's clearly an asshat of massive proportions and by my estimation, a prime candidate for a myocardial infarction before he hits forty-five. You could definitely do better."

Juliet flushed, but regarded Riley steadily. "I wanted him to tell the Chief himself if he'd said anything. To anyone." She shifted her stare to Spencer, a sharp edge to her voice as she added, "At all."

"_And_, Mr. Spencer?" Finally, Karen found her voice, her anger holding it cold and steady. "Have you shared your information with anyone who might be in a position to do you a favor? Or harm Carlton?"

"No." Spencer sighed and slumped back into the chair like a suddenly deflated balloon. "I haven't even told my dad. And no, Gus didn't even have to tell me not to say anything." He scrubbed a hand over his face, wincing as he rubbed the still-red mark Juliet had left on his cheek, then sat forward, his gaze meeting hers squarely.

"Look, Chief—I am honestly sorry for what happened yesterday. Obviously, I had no idea about your divorce or about you and Lass—" Catching himself he paused and very deliberately said, "Lassiter."

"It wasn't your place to know," she responded sharply, then felt compelled to add, "although, to be fair, it was likely going to become public knowledge fairly soon."

In a fog though she might have been, she'd still managed to notice Riley's immediate glance at her left hand when he'd arrived—so reminiscent of their first meeting, but for an altogether different reason—further reinforcing her suspicion that Carlton _had_ been about to propose at the beach.

"Chief—"

She felt the cushions beside her give as Spencer moved from the chair to the sofa.

"Here's the thing—I didn't come here just to apologize or to reassure you I didn't tell anyone and had no intention of telling anyone." He sent a nervous glance O'Hara's direction to which she responded with a raised eyebrow nod.

"What is it?"

"I think I know where he's gone."

A girlish yelp escaped as Karen grabbed a fistful of Spencer's shirt and yanked him close.

"Where?" she snarled, taking a perverse pleasure in how the pupils of his eyes dilated, nearly obliterating the pale hazel of the irises.

"Chief, please—" he wheezed.

"Karen, he can't talk if he faints."

Mildly disgusted, Karen released her grip. Sliding all the way back to the far end of the sofa, Spencer regarded her warily and with, she thought, a sort of wondering respect. Like he was getting what Carlton meant to her and to what lengths she'd be willing to go.

Little pissant had _no_ idea.

"Look, Chief, I'm going to ask you to trust me, here."

"_What_?" The shocked chorus of Riley and O'Hara's voices added to her own would have been hilarious under most circumstances, but Karen was _not_ in a laughing mood. And Spencer seemed to realize it as he began talking, fast and with an earnestness she'd rarely ever heard from him.

"If you go, he's going to _want_ to believe you that everything's going to be okay—he's gonna want to believe it more than anything and you might even be able to convince him it will be. And he'll come back and resume his life like nothing ever went wrong, but at the core of him, he's never going to be completely certain and it'll eat him alive. Think about it," he urged, leaning forward, close enough to where she could clock him if she so chose. "Think about the Carlton Lassiter we all know and you'll know I'm right."

Dammit.

Dammit all to _hell_.

"I know you're gonna hate it and I know he's gonna hate it and I know I'm for sure gonna hate it, but the only way he can be completely certain is for me to be the one to tell him it's going to be okay. Or for him to kill me."

The last was offered with a dash of typical Spencer bravado, but there was a clear undercurrent of fear to the words. Obviously, Spencer wasn't completely convinced Carlton wouldn't shoot him. Frankly, neither was Karen.

It was, however, a risk she was willing to take. Yes, she _did_ hate it, because she wanted to be the one to convince him, wanted to be the one to go to him, wanted to be the only one to soothe his fears, but damn him, in terms of this specific case Spencer had a point. A good one.

God, she _hated_ it. She hated this entire situation and right now, she _really_ hated Shawn Spencer.

But she had to trust him.

"Forty-eight hours," she said very softly and very dangerously. "You write down where you're going, you leave it with O'Hara, and you have forty-eight hours. If you're not back with him in that time—"

She gently cupped his chin and leaned in close. "Don't bother coming back at all."


	19. Chapter 19

**Safety in Numbers**

Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in **psych**_**, **_not even a grain of sand in the playground. TPTB own everything, I own nothing, no infringement intended, just having some fun playing "What if…"

* * *

><p>"Go away."<p>

"Dude, trust me, I really don't want to be here any more than you want me here."

"That would be a first."

A long sigh. "Yeah, okay, I guess I had that coming."

"Spencer, there's so much you have coming, but you know what? I just don't have it in me. Not anymore. I'm done. You win, okay? Now get the hell out of here and leave me alone."

"Man, what would the Chief say if she could hear this shit?"

Carlton clenched his jaw for a brief, murderous moment. "I'm only going to say this once, so make sure you actually listen—" He stared, unseeing, over the still lake waters, his mind's eye filled with images of Karen, aching. "You don't think about her—you don't talk about her. If I could manage it, you wouldn't even _look_ at her."

"You could." Footsteps approached—quiet, but with just enough deliberate presence so he could easily gauge how far away they stopped. About ten feet if he had to guess.

"You could take that Colt I'm guessing is sitting within easy reach in your tackle box and take me out without batting an eyelash." A beat. "Yet you haven't. Wonder why that is? Maybe because you can't bear the thought of taking out a fabulous head of hair such as mine?"

He'd be lying if he said the thought hadn't already occurred to him. But he simply didn't have the energy. He was just too fucking tired.

"Man, you really are done for, aren't you?" The steps resumed, slowly approaching until Carlton spotted the tips of a pair of black sneakers at the very edges of his peripheral vision. A moment later, the idiot actually eased himself down beside Carlton, dangling his legs over the edge of the pier.

One simple shove could easily topple the little bastard into the icy depths, never to be heard from again.

If Carlton cared.

Which he really, really didn't.

There was only one thing—one person—he cared about and who knew when he'd see her again. Or even if.

God knows, he wanted to go back—wanted to go back right _now. _Wanted to have never left. He wanted nothing more than to wake up, holding Karen close, her head on his chest, her breath bathing his skin with warmth, but that was impossible now. If he returned, all hell would break loose and it was entirely due to the moron currently sitting beside him.

Faint tremors of energy made the muscles in his arms twitch.

"What more do you want from me, Spencer?" he growled. "You've completely fucked up my life—again. Finally ran me off. Got your heart's desire. Was coming to gloat the cherry on the sundae?"

"Dude, shut _up_." The other man's voice held an unfamiliar edge. "Look at me—do I look like I'm gloating?"

"For God's sake, don't you get it?" Carlton sighed, his fingers curling around the dock's worn edges, shards of wood pressing into his skin. "I don't _want_ to look at you. I don't want to talk to you. I don't want you anywhere near me. I just want to be left the hell alone."

A short, bitter laugh escaped. "Christ, look who I'm talking to—of course you get it. You just don't give a rat's ass."

"Whining is so not a good look for you, Lassie. You're better off leaving that to professionals like me and Gus."

Crap on an ever-loving cracker.

The twerp wasn't going to leave until he got what he wanted, was he? Again, the blue-black icy waters beckoned, a tempting siren. But then _he'd_ be screwing up O'Hara's life and much as Carlton wanted to believe that Spencer's disappearance from her life could only be a _good _thing, he knew his partner truly loved the dolt for some God-only-knows-why reason. Admittedly, he was a cold-hearted bastard, but even he couldn't do that to her.

Against his better judgment, he turned his head, yeah, mildly shocked to discover that not only was Spencer _not_ gloating, his perpetually beard-shadowed and somewhat pudgy face actually looked serious.

Maybe had something to do with the impressive bruise he was sporting along one side of his jaw.

"Please tell me Karen did that to you."

Not that it would serve to make him happy, but it would at least add a glimmer of light to his currently bleak existence.

"Uh, Jules, actually."

Carlton considered that for a moment.

"Not quite as satisfying, but it'll do." Especially since it lent weight to turning fantasies of drowning the little twerp to reality. He returned his gaze to the lake, watching as a duck swooped in low and landed with a splash, ripples disturbing the otherwise glasslike stillness. "What'd you do that finally drove her to deck you?"

Had to be something good, considering she hadn't even beat the crap out of him following the debacle that was shoving her father back into her life. That was the point Carlton had come closest to keeping to his promise to shoot Spencer, given how he'd both utterly disrespected and hurt O'Hara, repeatedly and seemingly without remorse, but something had held him back and it wasn't because of sympathy for any kind of perceived good intentions. Frankly, he didn't give a flying crap about the man's intentions. It was more a case of sitting back and watching O'Hara. As angry and hurt as she'd been, she'd kept giving Spencer chance after chance after chance to make things right and that's when he finally understood that she honestly loved him. However dysfunctional he thought their relationship—and what did it say that _he _thought it was dysfunctional?—it was one she _chose_ to remain in. In the end, it would be up to her to shoot Spencer. Or at least _ask_ Carlton to do it for her.

"I messed with you one time too many."

Whatever he might have imagined would have driven her to hit Spencer, however, it was most assuredly _not_ that_._

He searched Spencer's expression, looking for the mocking, the joke, the laugh at his expense, because that's how it always was.

"Excuse me?"

Spencer met his gaze calmly—patiently, even, which was startling in and of itself. The man was never, ever still.

While Carlton continued to stare, trying to find something—_anything_—that would reveal this for the massive joke he knew it had to be, Spencer began talking.

"It's true, man. I swear." He shifted, resting his forearm across an upraised knee and turning his gaze to look out over the water. "Look, Lassie, I'll be honest with you—you could toss my body into what I'm sure are the icy waters of this Canadian lake and not a damned person back home would blame you. Hell, they'd only be upset not to be witnesses—and that's including Gus. And my father."

"But…" Carlton paused trying to wrap his head around what he was hearing. "_Why_?"

"Because I screwed up, man." Spencer spared him a quick glance before returning his gaze to the water. "I went too far."

_Now_ Carlton gave serious consideration to pitching Spencer into the water. "Who the hell did you tell?" he snarled, fingers digging into the worn wood. "What have you done to her?"

"No one." The other man's shoulders rose with a huge breath. "I mean I went too far when I busted you and Lucinda. That I've screwed up every time I didn't leave well enough alone where you're concerned. That I went too far when I couldn't stop myself from barging in on you at the beach just because it _was _you—at the beach, spending time with a woman you're clearly in love with."

Another breath escaped in the form of a long sigh. His voice softer he added, "Dude, I can't promise that I won't ever go too far or overstep bounds again. We both know I'm just not hardwired that way."

"No kidding," Carlton muttered, half spoiling for a fight, for something with which to release the anger and aggression he'd hoped coming to this peaceful place would soothe. Yet even before Spencer had shown he'd known it for a lost cause.

Rather than rise to the bait, Spencer kept talking. Just talking, talking, talking, the way he always did, because for God's sake, the man just could not _ever_ shut the hell up. For once, though, it seemed as if his words carried actual weight, prompting Carlton to take a deep breath of his own and listen.

"What I can promise, though, is that no one's ever going to hear about you and Chief Vick—at least, not from me."

Carlton glanced down as a book appeared on the dock between them, Spencer's hand resting on top.

"Even stole Dad's bible to prove my intent."

Carlton glanced up from the book to Spencer's face, a half-smile turning up the other man's mouth before it settled back into a serious line.

"I swear to God, Lassie—I won't ever say a word about you and the Chief. Never had any intention of it."

Carlton narrowed his eyes, studying Spencer's features, looking for the lie inevitably living behind the serious expression and seeing nothing but sincerity. Bass-ackwards, twisted-logic, couldn't get it more wrong if he tried, Spencer-like sincerity, but sincerity, nevertheless. Still—Carlton was Carlton and he wasn't about to just blindly trust sincerity.

Especially not from Spencer.

"Why."

"Why?"

"Yes, why. Why haven't you said anything? Why should I believe you now? After all this time?"

"Because it didn't _feel_ right, man."

Carlton's brows drew together. "And blurting out that Lucinda and I were in a relationship felt _okay_?"

"That's not what I meant." Spencer's hand went to his forehead and so help him, if he tried to spout off some bullshit "psychic" vision nonsense, that was it—he _would_ become one with the lake waters and O'Hara would just have to grieve then go on with her life.

Maybe they could find some backwater police department to take them both on. That way they could remain partners. Be miserable together.

But no, no so-called psychic ramblings. Just Spencer wearily rubbing his forehead.

"I can't really explain it, Lassie, but there was just something about seeing you and Vick together that was just… I don't know, man. It's like you guys… fit. And the thought of saying anything—to anyone—just didn't feel right." Both hands landed helplessly on his thighs as he repeated, "You guys just… fit."

He shrugged and looked back out over the water mumbling something that to Carlton sounded incomprehensibly like, "You wouldn't hesitate to buy a car for her."

Whatever it was the idiot was muttering faded as the enormity of what he'd already said sank in.

He hadn't told anyone.

Hadn't intended to tell anyone.

And deep down in Carlton's gut where his best instincts lived—what he'd trusted, in all his years as the cop with the stunning case record before Spencer had come barreling into his life—where the instinct that had prodded him to pursue a relationship with Karen and that had been berating him as a cowardly asshat for leaving burned, he _knew_.

Spencer, for once in his miserable, lie-ridden existence, was actually telling the honest-to-God, sincere truth.

Shoving his hands through his hair, he asked, "How is she?"

Spencer leaned back on his hands and stared out past the line of pine trees surrounding the lake's opposite shore. "Pretty wrecked. And pretty pissed. At both of us." He spared Carlton a quick, telling glance. "Although your return will be welcomed, at least, eventually. If I come back without you, however—"

Carlton's eyebrows drew together. "What?"

Spencer shrugged and scrambled to his feet, extending a hand. "Let's just say if you don't intend to go back, you should just take me out now and spare Chief Vick the trouble. And trust me, she wasn't kidding."

Carlton stared at the offered hand—considered making him sweat, just a little—before deciding, _nah_. He'd abuse Spencer some other time. If there was any one thing he could count on, it was that the little shitweasel would give him ample opportunity in the future. Reaching up he grasped Spencer's hand, allowing the other man to haul him to his feet. As he brushed off the seat of his khakis and bent down to collect his unused fishing gear, he grinned, imagining Karen delivering a threat, cool and deadly effective.

"How'd you know where to find me?" he asked as they ambled back up the dock toward the cabin he'd rented.

"The spi—"

"Don't, Spencer," he warned. "For once, just… don't."

For a second he looked as if he might want to argue, hazel eyes narrowing as Carlton met his gaze steadily. Whatever transpired between them on this dock, it would be left here—but for Carlton to fully believe Spencer, to fully trust in what he was saying, he'd have to continue being completely honest. After they got back home, it would change, he knew. Spencer would go back to his psychic shtick and Carlton would continue doubting it, but going along with it, for everyone's sake, but for this one moment, Shawn Spencer _had_ to be honest.

Understanding lit Spencer's eyes as he nodded and exhaled. "You said something about wanting to come back after the Despereaux case. And I remembered you reading up on fishing and cabin rentals after we got back." Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a wad of glossy brochures, battered and creased. "I broke into your desk."

Carlton lifted an eyebrow, filing away the information on Spencer's gross breach of privacy for later punishment. "And you went to all of them?"

"This was my third one. But I was gonna hit every damned one if I had to." He shoved his hands into the pockets of the puffy vest that gave him the approximate shape of a penguin. "I told you, man—I couldn't come back without you. She was dead, friggin' serious about that and I wasn't about to test her, not after she already nearly took me out." Clear outrage colored Spencer's tone as he added, "With _your_ sidearm."

Carlton felt warmth suffuse him at Spencer's babblings.

Damn, but he missed her. Even knowing what was waiting for him in terms of an extremely angry Karen and knowing that he'd have to do some pretty hardcore groveling, he couldn't wait to get back because he _missed_ her. So damned much it hurt. He'd known before his plane landed that leaving had been the stupidest thing he'd ever done. But he honestly thought it would be better if he wasn't there—at least, better for her.

Not better for him.

Never.

Because as far as he was concerned, nothing would ever be right if she wasn't by his side.


	20. Chapter 20

**Safety in Numbers**

Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in **psych**_**, **_not even a grain of sand in the playground. TPTB own everything, I own nothing, no infringement intended, just having some fun playing "What if…"

So. We're actually nearing the end of this particular epic. In the meantime, go read Loafer's spectacular new Karlton: _This is Not a Lassiet_. Seriously magnificent stuff.

* * *

><p>Carlton took a deep breath and softly rapped his knuckles against the door.<p>

_Chicken._

Yep. Clucking all the way. Because he could have used the doorbell. Hell, he could have used the key she'd given him weeks before. The key, though, was for emergencies and general use on weekends when Iris was with her father. It was early on a Tuesday evening, so he couldn't really be faulted for not using the key.

The doorbell, however…

_Bawk, bawk, you lily-livered pansy._

Yep.

On his second knock, a face appeared in the sidelight beside the front door, smaller and much lower to the ground than expected. He shamelessly felt a small wave of relief as it swung open, allowing him a reprieve—however brief.

"Boy, is Mommy mad at you."

He sighed and dropped to a knee. Gazing into Iris' solemn face, so like her mother's, he asked, "How mad?"

"Remember when I borrowed her favorite pretty shoes to pretend I was Detective O'Hara?"

Carlton cringed. Iris had borrowed a pair of Karen's shoes—evening shoes sporting some damned Frenchy name Carlton could barely pronounce and that had cost approximately the same amount as his monthly condo fees—and had proceeded to playact O'Hara apprehending bad guys. In the back yard. After a rainstorm.

Needless to say, the shoes were trashed, Iris sprained her ankle skidding around in the mud and had ended up grounded for a week, O'Hara very nearly along with her for lacking the common sense to wear more practical shoes on the job. Carlton himself had temporarily wound up in the doghouse for being dumb enough to wonder out loud why women spent so much money on shoes they might only wear once or twice a year.

Karen had responded by stalking to his guest room closet and yanking open the door to reveal his Civil War reenactment uniforms—custom-tailored to his form and meticulously accurate down to the tiniest detail.

He'd resolved to shut up after that.

Unfortunately, he didn't think shutting up would work so well here.

"I did something pretty stupid, Iris."

Folding her arms, she cocked her head and studied him—_so_ like her mother with that steady, assessing stare. "You didn't borrow her shoes, too, did you?"

"If he did, we're going to have bigger problems than I thought."

Carlton's stood slowly, his heart springboarding off one of his ribs and lodging itself in his throat, restricting his ability to breathe and with it, think coherently. All he could manage was—

_Karen._

Just… _Karen._

Barefoot, which was why he hadn't heard her approach—wearing jeans and a t-shirt, hair disheveled around her face as she wiped her hands on a dishtowel—altogether beautiful and everything he'd been dreaming of.

The expression on her face, though—

His heart sank at her closed-off expression yet even so, lovesick idiot that he was, all he could think was—

_Karen…_

"Baby, go wash your hands and set the table for dinner. Dishes and silverware are already on the counter."

Carlton felt a tug at one of his hands. As he glanced down, Iris asked, "Are you going to stay, Carlton?"

With his free hand he brushed a strand of hair back off her forehead and tucked it behind her ear. "I'd like to, if it's okay with your mom," he replied quietly with a quick glance at Karen. That opaque, shuttered expression revealed nothing until he looked in her eyes and what he saw there sent a shaft a pain through him.

Wounded.

Those large dark eyes that couldn't hide anything from him revealed a wounded hurt that only deepened the longer their gazes held.

He sucked.

Like a pool vacuum skimming the bottom of a disgusting, slime-ridden, hadn't-been-cleaned-in-decades pool.

Yet Spencer had assured him—multiple times—that she wanted him back. Enough to threaten Spencer with grievous bodily harm if the idiot didn't bring him back.

Carlton was accustomed to inadvertently hurting people he loved.

To be wanted in spite of that? That was new. So he didn't know what to look for.

Didn't know what to believe.

"There are three plates already out, Iris."

Little black dots swam in his field of vision as he finally started breathing again.

"Guess I'm staying, then," he said to the little girl who grinned and squeezed his hand once more before running off toward the kitchen.

Finally alone with her, he steeled himself to meet Karen's gaze once more—to submit himself to whatever verbal tongue-lashing she saw fit to deliver. Frozen, he watched as she slowly and unhesitatingly approached, blinking hard, until she was pressed against him, holding him tight, breath warm against his chest.

"You ever do anything that stupid again, I swear to God, Carlton—"

Her voice caught as beneath his hands, her back shuddered.

Finally, he articulated the only thing he'd been able to think since the moment he'd left her on Sunday.

"Karen."

Lowering his head, he rested his cheek on her hair and closed his eyes, breathing her in as he tightened his hold, trying like hell to make her a part of him he'd never be without again.

"Karen."

Drawing back slightly, she cupped his face her in her hands, staring up at him with damp eyes. "You're an idiot, but you're _my_ idiot, you got that? My job isn't worth a damn without you to come home to."

Well. What could he say to that?

Other than "Yes, ma'am?"

Except she hated being called "ma'am."

A lot.

So if he said it, it would likely earn him additional ass-kicking.

So what could he say?

She saved him from having to say anything by the simple measure of kissing him hard, her tongue demanding immediate entry that hell no, he wasn't about to deny. One hand buried in her hair, the other splayed low across her back, he held her close to where the heat was rapidly building, his tongue stroking hers insistently while a tiny voice in the back of his mind reminded him that Iris was but a room away.

Karen seemed to remember the same thing as she drew back with a quick glance over her shoulder. As she turned back, he took in her already swollen mouth, the skin around it abraded from the stubble he hadn't bothered shaving off and sue him for feeling a wave of satisfaction that she was breathing every bit as hard as he was. She looked so damned tempting, he couldn't help but lean down and soothe that soft, reddened skin with the tip of his tongue, the blood rushing through his ears at her quick intake of breath.

"You're staying tonight, you know," she whispered into his mouth.

Now it was his turn to draw back, attempting to gather his scrambled brain cells into something not utterly affected by hormones.

Yeah. Right.

"Are you sure?" he finally managed. "Iris—"

"I don't use words I don't mean," she broke in, the words harkening back to their first night together. "You're staying—" For a moment, she looked uncertain. "If you want."

"I want." He stroked from her shoulders down to her hands, taking them in his and lifting them to his mouth. "I want everything, Karen," he whispered against her fingers, some of his fear bleeding through the words.

"Oh, Carlton," she said softly as she freed one hand and stroked it through his hair, her touch soothing and arousing all at once. "Oh, Carlton," she repeated, her tone also equal parts soothing and arousing, "you'd better get used to getting it."


	21. Chapter 21

**Safety in Numbers**

Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in **psych**_**, **_not even a grain of sand in the playground. TPTB own everything, I own nothing, no infringement intended, just having some fun playing "What if…"

* * *

><p>Karen smoothed the covers over Iris, making certain Mr. Bunny was tucked securely alongside. She took a deep breath as she brushed her daughter's baby-fine blonde hair back from her forehead.<p>

"Baby—I just wanted you to know, Carlton's going to be here when you wake up in the morning."

Even though he'd quietly offered to leave before Iris woke up to which Karen had emphatically put her foot down, saying absolutely not. It was one thing to have been discreet in the early stages of their relationship, but even if it took him time to work back up to asking her to marry him, they were way the hell beyond _early stages_. This was it—for both of them. Of that she was absolutely certain.

And if he persisted in being skittish and mule-headed and fearful, well then, she'd just take the damned bull by the horns and ask him to marry her.

Soon.

"Like a sleepover?"

Kanre smiled. "Um, sort of." She thought how best to explain it in a way that would make sense to Iris without potentially creating any embarrassing moments for Carlton. "It's kind of like when Daddy used to live with us."

Iris stared up at her, brows knit together. _Dammit_. Karen knew that look. Mostly because she often caught sight of it in her own mirror, while trying to work through an issue. She didn't necessarily expect things to be completely smooth sailing, bringing Carlton in their little family, but given how Iris really seemed to have taken to him from the beginning, she'd hoped it wouldn't be too difficult. Even tonight, the little girl appeared genuinely happy during dinner and had sat, comfortably nestled between them on the sofa as they watched her favorite _Lilo and Stitch_ before Karen had sent her off to get ready for bed.

So what was with the look?

But because she knew the look and knew the genesis of the look, she also knew she wouldn't get a thing out of Iris until she was good and ready.

Still, it was bedtime.

"What is it, Iris?"

Luckily, Iris seemed to have thought through the issue fairly quickly. "If it's like when Daddy lived with us, then why isn't Carlton in here saying goodnight to me?"

All right then. Not quite what she'd expected.

"You want Carlton to come in and say goodnight?"

"Yes." Iris glared and huffed out an impatient breath as if it should have been painfully obvious.

Karen found herself torn between swallowing a laugh at Iris' outraged tone and not allowing her jaw to drop in shock.

"All right, then." She stood. "I'll be right back."

He was possibly going to freak, she knew, this first time, but he'd just have to get used to it. He was part of them, now.

As she entered the living room he glanced up from the newspaper he'd been skimming through. "Iris down?" he asked quietly and for a moment, she allowed herself to soak in the moment. Knowing these would be the moments making up their life from now on—quiet moments, ordinary moments—the best moments.

She grinned to herself as she imagined what was going to happen after they finished putting Iris to bed.

Best moments on a _whole_ other level.

"Iris wants you to come say goodnight."

Both eyebrows did an admirable job of climbing toward his hairline as he glanced over his shoulder, as if making certain he was the only one in the room.

"Yes, you, Carlton." She crossed the room and unceremoniously hauled him from the chair. "I told her you'd be here in the morning. Explained that it was like when her father used to live here."

He stopped dead in his tracks, blue eyes bright with alarm. "What?"

She huffed out an impatient breath, not unlike the one Iris had just hit her with. "Well, she asked if it was like a sleepover and I wasn't about to say it _was_ because God forbid she come wandering out in the middle of the night, thinking she was going to catch us making s'mores."

Carlton's eyes widened further, then darkened as he no doubt envisioned what Iris could potentially catch them making. "Are you _sure_ you want me to stay?" he asked, his tone caught somewhere between the same alarm and passion turning his eyes that intensely brilliant shade of blue.

"Carlton Lassiter, we are going to go in, say goodnight to that little girl, then you are going to take me into the bedroom and—"

His mouth was on hers, hot and insistent and oh, oh _yeah_… he was going to take her into the bedroom and… and…

"Let's say goodnight to Iris," he murmured against her ear as he nuzzled her jaw, his teeth nipping the lobe lightly and making her arch against him.

"Let's make it quick," she whispered back, slipping her hand inside his open collar and scratching lightly at his neck, warmth flooding her at his shiver.

"God, yes," he groaned as he adjusted his slacks, pulling the tails of his shirt free of the waistband.

In Iris' bedroom, he lingered in the doorway, calling out goodnight and earning an eyeroll from Iris.

"Not like _that_, Carlton." She beckoned him closer with an imperious wave he responded to with a raised eyebrow glance at Karen. Smothering a laugh, she nodded that he was better off obeying the royal summons.

Cautiously, he approached, pausing at what he thought must have been a safe distance, earning a glare that didn't ease until he was right up alongside her bed. At her impatient tug to his hand, he gingerly balanced on the edge of the mattress, finally earning a smile of approval.

"You'll be here in the morning?"

After another mildly panicked glance over his shoulder to which Karen responded with a reassuring nod, his shoulders rose with a deep breath.

"Yes, I will, Iris. I hope that's okay."

The little girl was still for a moment, then so softly, Karen could barely hear it, said, "Mommy said it's going to be like when Daddy lived with us."

Karen's breath caught—taking a step forward with the intent of saving Carlton, she stopped as she heard him start talking.

"It's not exactly the same, but yeah… I do want to be around a lot more. If it's okay with you." Karen watched as he fumbled in his pocket, withdrawing a small box. "Actually, I wanted to ask you if it would be okay for me to marry your mom."

As much as Karen hated that Spencer had interrupted their moment at the beach—as much as she hated what he'd put them through—she had to admit, _this_ was more than making up for it. Seeing Iris' eyes widen and hearing her gasp as Carlton opened the box and showed her the contents, asking, "Do you think she'll like it?" and watching as her daughter nodded enthusiastically and flung her arms around a startled Carlton's neck made the hell they'd been through the past few days completely worth it.

They both turned to her with expectant expressions, Carlton's overlaid with a bit of uncertainty while Iris' clearly communicated, _"Say yes now you crazy lady."_ Grinning and shaking her head, Karen approached the bed, her gaze locked with Carlton's deep blue, utterly beloved one.

"Mom, is it okay?" Iris asked much in the same way she might have begged, "Can we _keep_ him?"

Either one worked. It was very, _very_ okay and she had every intention of keeping him—

Forever.


	22. Chapter 22

**Safety in Numbers**

Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in **psych**_**, **_not even a grain of sand in the playground. TPTB own everything, I own nothing, no infringement intended, just having some fun playing "What if…"

* * *

><p>Closing the door to her—<em>their<em>—room , Karen sagged against it, helpless with laughter.

"What was all that about?" Carlton asked as he emerged from the bathroom, a towel around his hips and rubbing another over his head. "Is she still okay with everything?"

His uncertain question prompted a fresh wave of laughter that left him staring, brows drawn together in a familiar peevish frown that had Karen wiping tears of hilarity from her eyes.

"Karen—"

"I'm sorry," she gasped, holding a hand up, asking for a moment. Clearly getting that neither she, nor her daughter had had a sudden and tragic change of heart about wanting him in their lives, he relaxed, at least enough to resume rubbing the towel over his head although he kept staring at her, a measure of uncertainty clouding the blue of his eyes with a sheen of gray.

She needed to get it together before the poor man completely lost it. Her lovely, contrary Carlton, secure enough to ask Iris if he could marry her mother—so uncertain it could be real. That it always be real.

Taking a deep breath, then another, the laughter finally subsided to only an occasional giggle. And the longer she stood there, breathing deep and taking him in, the light spilling from the bathroom haloing him with a warm glow, the more the laughter faded, although an overall satisfaction and well-being suffused her. Much like in the living room earlier, she thought, _Yes—this. This is our life now._

With a contented sigh, she crossed to him and urged him to sit on the edge of the bed. Clambering up behind him, she took the towel from his hands and began gently wiping at the beads of water still clinging to his shoulders and trickling down his spine to disappear beneath the terry knotted at his lean waist.

"Iris wanted me to stay for 'girl talk.'"

"Okay," he murmured, leaning forward and presenting more of his back to her. "I'm going to assume that's code for something those of us with the Y chromosome can't possibly grasp."

"Well, she seems to be under the impression that planning a wedding is the strict purview of women because 'boys don't understand how important it is to make it pretty.'"

She grinned as his back jerked slightly then shook with his laugh.

"Ohhh-kay."

"She wanted to present her opinions on how our wedding planning should proceed. Apparently, she's been part of several weddings of late during recess so she has quite definite ideas.." Using a corner of the towel she dabbed at the back of his neck and up into his hairline, absorbing the excess moisture.

His voice was wry as he asked, "Have any of them been her own?"

"At least three." She abandoned the towel in favor of skimming her hands along his damp, cool skin. After Iris had requested her mother stay behind, he'd murmured he would just go take a quick shower, since he hadn't even stopped at his condo after the long journey back from the backwoods of British Columbia.

When he'd finally confessed where he'd been she'd started to scold him for running so damned far away, but he then reminded her that he'd had to travel back with Spencer. A lengthy car ride _and_ two flights' worth of travel.

When he put it that way… okay that was a fairly adequate punishment. For now.

God help us, a budding Liz Taylor," he murmured, his back rising and falling, then arching beneath her touch like a satisfied cat. Karen sighed along with him as her hands traversed the long length of his back, her fingertips walking a sinuous path along the straight textured line of his spine before tracing light patterns connecting the faint dusting of freckles scattered across the width of his shoulders. Another contrast—the pale coffee-colored dots almost deceptively boyish, belying the strength of the man beneath.

"Should we be concerned about the school, that they're not controlling all these juvenile matrimonies?"

The laugh that automatically bubbled forth died almost as quickly as she felt him tense in an entirely different manner.

"I'm sorry."

She rubbed at suddenly knotted muscles. "Why?"

His voice was very soft. "I don't want to overstep my bounds."

Karen's heart broke a little at the pain underlying his words—as she recalled his confession at Iris' birth.

"Hey—" She pulled gently at his shoulder, drawing him down to lie alongside her on the bed. Like the room, theirs now. Everything was theirs but he was so accustomed to being shut out—to being told he didn't matter. Lord, but that pissed her off. He mattered to _her_, dammit. The ruby solitaire he'd given her glowed warm and steady against her skin as she cupped his face in her hands and studied his troubled blue gaze.

"Listen to me." She waited until she was sure he was as out of his head as he was liable to get. "Yes, Iris has a father who loves her and will always be involved in the big decisions of her life, but fact of the matter is, Carlton, from now on, you're part of her life, too. You'll be here for all the everyday moments—when she brings home a great report card or needs help with her science project or comes home upset because someone was mean to her at school. You're going to be here for all the little things that amount to as much, if not more, as the big things. And no, you may not—"

His eyes widened at the seeming contradiction of her words. "May not what?"

"May not draw your weapon on school administrators or pull any little punks into the station for a talking to."

She almost laughed at the battle she saw being waged in his eyes, turned a stormy shade more gray than blue, because yeah, she _knew_ what his automatic impulse would be. Not that she hadn't fought the same battle herself—it was a dangerous combination, that Mama Bear instinct to protect coupled with the fact that she carried both a badge and more importantly, a weapon. Carlton might not be the Mama Bear, but protectiveness for those he cared for ran a mile wide and fathoms deep. Woe be to the first boy who broke Iris' heart.

"You matter so damned much, Carlton." Her voice was soft and intimate, a tone unlike her Chief Vick voice or her Mommy voice or even her everyday Karen voice. This was a voice that had emerged early in their relationship—one meant just for him. "To Iris and even more, to me. Out there, I have to be Chief Vick or Mom—I have to be in charge and always know the right thing to do, but here—you're my partner. I'm counting on you to be my rock and help me when I just don't know what the hell the right thing to do is."

"I'm going to screw up," he whispered miserably. "And she'll end up hating me. And you'll end up hating me."

"Oh, please," she scoffed. "You think I'm not going to screw up, too? I _have_ screwed up. And she's sure to have moments where she considers me Public Enemy Number One. Which will make it even more important that she has you to turn to."

"But you're her mother," he protested.

"And you're Carlton," she responded gently. "Someone who's in her life because you _choose_ to be there. Don't you understand how special that is?"

He did. Even if his head was having difficulty understanding, his heart did, reflected through those expressive eyes. In their deep blue depths she clearly read hope and determination and ferocity, all wrapped within an all-consuming love and she knew then, this man would never, _ever_ let her daughter—or her for that matter—down.

"I love you." His hands reached beneath the hem of her shirt to span her back, holding her close. "And I love Iris, too, but you, Karen… you're my life."

"I love you, too." Heart pounding, she leaned her forehead against his, her mouth grazing his as she whispered fiercely, "And this is _our_ life now—you understand?"

His hands, normally so steady and secure, trembled against her back. Indicating he understood what she'd left unsaid.

"I thought it would be for the best."

"You thought wrong."

"Tell me about it." His voice was wry but again, with that telltale note of pain. "Let's chalk it up to one of the dumbest ideas I've ever had."

"How about we forget about it, instead?" she whispered against his mouth. Slowly, she trailed her hands from his cheeks, along his neck and to his shoulders, her fingers digging in as his hands moved to her backside, cupping and pulling her tight against his hardness.

"I'm…" he breathed, the tip of his tongue briefly teasing the sensitive curve of her lower lip, "good with that."

With a sigh, she sank further into his kiss, slowly losing herself in the feel of him against her. Beneath her palms his chest was warm, the hair teasing her skin in an erotic caress as she rubbed small circles, his nipples hardening as she lightly scored her nails over them once, then again… and again… her heart beating in time to the quickening of his breathing.

Heat built in her from the inside as his skin rapidly warmed beneath her touch—_so_ warm, the muscles bunching and shifting beneath her palms, goosebumps trailing in the wake of her nails scratching lightly against his skin. Part of her thrilled to the flush of his skin, the faint red marks she left behind—_her_ marks. A wave of possessiveness washed over her as she envisioned marking him further, digging her nails in harder, sinking her teeth into him, tasting him.

All of a sudden, he rolled to his back, taking her with him.

"You're overdressed," he stated flatly, yanking her t-shirt up over her head and just as quickly unfastening her bra and tossing it aside. And even though he seemed to be in a hell of a hurry to get her naked, he nevertheless paused and just… looked. She felt herself flush as his appreciative gaze took her in, his hands moving slowly up from her waist to cup her breasts, making her arch her back.

Shifting himself to a sitting position, his mouth found her breasts, the soft dampness of his hair tickling her skin as his hot mouth worked her over, first one side, then the other, leaving her gasping and holding him close. Hoarsely calling his name as she arched her back and offered herself up to him.

Anxious for more contact, she fumbled with her jeans, breaking their connection only long enough to yank them off along with her underwear while he pulled the towel away from his hips and tossed it aside. Propped up against the headboard, he pulled her back over him, one of those graceful, long-fingered hands delving between her legs and making her gasp. His groan, as he found her warm and oh, so damned ready, vibrated against her throat.

"Now, baby," she breathed against his ear, nipping at the lobe. "Please… now."

"God, yes—"

With his hands at her hips, she rose on her knees, reaching beneath herself to caress the hard length of him briefly before guiding him home. Sinking down onto him, holding him close within her, _felt_ like coming home. Complete and perfect and incredibly close. Like this, she was able to hold him, wrapped around him, meeting his deep blue aroused gaze with her own, as she rose and fell in slow undulations, her breasts brushing against his chest with each thrust. Consistent, maddening sparks of sensation, driving them both to move harder, seeking more contact until it got to be too much and he shifted again, rolling her to her back.

His hands pinning hers to the bed, he moved slow and deliberate and hard, his breath warm against her skin as he urged her to let go, grinding his body to hers until she convulsed around him. As her body tightened and shuddered with her release, he waited, holding himself still, breathing hard, his eyes dark as he fought for control. Reaching one hand between them, he stroked and caressed, taking her over the edge once more and only then, did he let himself go, his body shuddering and jerking as he held her close.

Giving himself up to her. Clearly communicating with his body his love—his determination and intent to always put her first and to never, _ever_ let her go again.

Holding him close, stroking his sweat-dampened back, Karen hoped he understood the sentiment ran both ways. Exceedingly so.

Theirs wouldn't always be an easy road—it wouldn't be without its rough patches—but she was _never_ letting Carlton Lassiter go.

Ever.


	23. Chapter 23

**Safety in Numbers**

Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in **psych**_**, **_not even a grain of sand in the playground. TPTB own everything, I own nothing, no infringement intended, just having some fun playing "What if…"

One of my favorite scenes in the finale was the office—especially the visual of Karen & Carlton standing side by side behind her desk and her chiding him. You squint and of course, take it in a somewhat AU direction, you can imagine that they're together and maintaining the professional divide at work. That's how I'm going to choose to interpret it for the sake of this chapter.

* * *

><p><em>Carlton stared at Henry, aghast. "How did the department not know about this?"<em>

_"Because he had protection from one of our own—my ex-partner, Lou Gamble." Henry sighed and to his credit, looked both pained and ashamed. And for the first time, to Carlton—old. That wasn't possible. Sure, he ribbed him, because hell, he _had_ to, in order to gain any kind of leg up on Henry Spencer, but the man was ageless. And infallible. The kind of detective Carlton had always aspired to be._

_That something like this had happened under his watch was… unthinkable._

_Karen's voice snapped him out of his head. "Well, this gets better and better. Lassiter, let's track down Jordan ASAP."_

_"Track him down?" Shawn Spencer looked stunned. "Isn't he here?"_

_"His lawyer arranged his release a half hour ago. We didn't have enough to hold him."_

_Slimy little bastard. "I'll bring him back in—dead or alive."_

_"_Alive_." Karen stressed the word, punctuating it with a meaningful glance. One that warned Carlton not to draw his weapon without cause as much as it expressed concern that he not do anything stupid. Anything that might get him hurt. _

_"Fine." His voice emerged in its normal workday bark, but behind the desk, he brushed his fingers against hers, warming as he felt her grasp them in all-too-brief hold. Fighting for his usual dry tone, he added, "Didn't say anything about conscious."_

_Her exasperation—and love—followed him the entire way out of her office._

* * *

><p>"So, Carl—"<p>

"So what?" Carlton dropped the last of the Beaumont/Towne files at the Records desk before rounding the corner to where Gibson waited. As Carlton skimmed through the messages waiting on his desk, Gibson dropped into his guest chair, that damned, troublemaking grin wreathing his face.

"What?" Carlton snapped again as he took his seat.

"Can I assume that with this case in the books, wedding plans can now resume?"

"Dammit, Gib—" Out of force of habit, Carlton glanced around, making certain that they were maintaining relative privacy.

"Relax, Carl," he drawled. "No one's within earshot. Although I don't get why you guys are still being so hush-hush about things. I was under the impression you're more or less an open secret now."

Assured that yes, they were relatively alone, given that it was near the end of the regular day shift, Carlton relaxed back into his chair, his gaze glancing across the cleaned surface of the desk opposite his, Once again, he tried to dismiss the oddly empty feeling that had taken up residence in the pit of his stomach since the moment earlier this afternoon when Karen had told him Henry had retired—altogether—effective immediately.

The expression in her dark brown eyes had been so stricken, he'd been driven to the rare action of closing her office door and drawing the blinds so he could pull her into his arms and hold her close, stroking her hair and crooning—nonsense, really—anything to soothe the hurt he felt as intensely as if it was his own. Just the night before she'd been so excited, running the idea past him of asking Henry to stay on as a detective. And while at the beginning of the case he might have objected—vehemently—by the end of it…

Yeah.

Carlton had remembered exactly _why_ Henry had been the detective he looked up to, working his way up the ranks. The _cop_ he wanted to emulate.

Dammit.

Well, at least no one was going to be nudging his desk out of position anymore and his idiot son wouldn't have any reason to hover over him, thank God.

"Carl?"

Shaking his head, Carlton returned his attention to Gibson, whose genial façade had fallen away, revealing genuine concern and the "don't bullshit me" expression with which Carlton was all too familiar.

He nodded at the cleared desk. "Henry Spencer quit today." More quietly he added, "Karen's upset about it. She'd really hoped he would stay on as a detective."

"I thought he drove you nuts?"

"He's almost as bad as his pain in the ass son—" Carlton reached for his mug, draining the cold dregs that remained with a grimace. "But more straightforward about being a pain in the ass and that, at least, I can respect."

"You respect that he's a damned fine cop," Gib pointed out. "Always have."

"Yeah." Releasing a slow breath, he leaned back in his chair and gazed into Karen's office. She'd been on the phone a while now, expression set in determined lines.

"As far as why we're still so hush-hush, yeah, we're an open secret, but we're keeping the lines between work and home pretty firmly drawn. And the clearer we keep those lines drawn, the less expectation we potentially have to deal with."

Gib's eyebrows rose. "Expectation?"

Carlton leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. "We both had the big circus weddings first time around. Neither of us wants that."

"And with both of you holding positions of rank around here—"

"Exactly." Carlton nodded. "People are damned nosy."

"Oh, for God's sake." Gib rolled his eyes and hit him with the "you idiot" stare with which Carlton was also exceedingly familiar.

"What?"

"How long have you been a cop here?"

Carlton shrugged. "Twenty years, give or take."

"And Karen?"

He shrugged again. "More or less the same."

"So…" Gibson pursed his lips and hit Carlton with a meaningful stare. "Is it possible—and I get how novel a concept this is—that your coworkers might just, you know, maybe… _care?_"

Smug bastard. Carlton crossed his arms and glared as Gibson sat back with an idiotic grin that was eerily reminiscent of Spencer at his annoying best. "Be that as it may—and not that I'm agreeing with you, because I'm _so_ not—" he clarified as Gibson's grin grew larger and more idiotic, "we want our wedding to be about us. Not about putting a show on for anyone else's benefit."

"Iris will be devastated."

"Iris will be happy if she gets to wear a pretty dress and a flower crown," Carlton corrected drily. "Or preferably, a sparkly tiara with matching shoes. The rest of it is pretty much inconsequential. Except that for some unexplainable reason, she expects you to be there."

"Unexplainable?" Gibson drew back with mock dismay. "What's unexplainable about the adoration she has for Uncle Gib?"

"No comment," Carlton muttered as he stood and gave the messages and files on his desk a last-minute once over. Once upon a time he might have stayed as late as possible, made up tasks, done his damnedest to delay the inevitable loneliness waiting for him at home, but not these days. Too often cases legitimately kept him late, so the days he could leave on time, by God, he left.

"We were thinking in a couple of weeks—at the beach, maybe," he offered quietly. Sliding a sidelong glance Gibson's way, he took note of the slow nod—the expression resting somewhere between genial and serious. _That_ was Riley—his best friend. And Carlton knew he wouldn't have to say another word beyond telling him when and where.

He threw a few papers in his briefcase and closed the flap. "Why are you here anyway?" he asked, shoving his arms into his jacket. "As you so gracefully pointed out, twenty years I've been working here and it's only in the past few weeks you've made a habit of dropping by. Don't you have a job?"

"Ha ha," Gibson mocked as he stood. "Back when you were a beat cop and I was busting ass as a resident, neither of us had time. These days, we're more established and have greater freedom. Besides, for some bizarre reason, I like you."

"You are so full of shit, Gibson, you almost give Spencer a run for his money."

There was no real heat, though. He'd only admit it under the influence of a couple of whiskies, but it'd been a nice distraction, these little impromptu visits with Gibson. Spending his days working with Karen, yet maintaining such a strict level of discretion was comforting, arousing, annoying, and damned necessary. As if sensing his frustration, Gibson had taken to dropping by, getting him out of the station for a coffee or a lunch—long enough to take the edge off.

At least he got to go home to her every night, now that he'd fully moved in. She'd offered to sell the house—have them look for something that was theirs, but he'd dismissed the idea as ridiculous. It was the house Iris had grown up in, they were in a good school district, and Karen, in the year she'd been living in the house as a single woman had made enough changes so that it no longer bore resemblance to the house she'd shared with her ex. As he'd moved in, they'd made more changes, painting, switching out furniture and now, two months later, the house was fully theirs. He saw no need to upset Iris' life any further.

And Karen had made her appreciation known. Emphatically.

"Detective O'Hara—what a nice surprise."

Carlton ducked his head, hiding a smile.

"Dr. Gibson, nice to see you again."

"Riley, please." Gibson crossed to where O'Hara stood at the coffee bar. "We're practically family, after all, what with you being Carlton's partner for how long now?"

Carlton bit the inside of his cheek, feeling his eyes water. Son of a bitch could probably pinpoint within a few weeks how long Carlton and O'Hara had been partners, especially given its correspondence with Lucinda's transfer.

God—Lucinda. He could barely remember what it had been like to have her in his life—just the faint vestiges of something lovely and sweet and very necessary for who he'd been then.

O'Hara's light laugh pulled him from his head, the last of Lucinda drifting off and dissipating. "Nearly seven years. Wow."

"And he's still alive. Remarkable."

"It's been close on occasion. And please, call me Juliet."

Carlton watched as Gibson leaned a shoulder against the wall while O'Hara poured coffee in her mug, then after a questioning glance at Gib, poured a fresh mug. Shaking his head, Carlton gathered his things and paused by Karen's door—relieved to see that whatever had kept her on the phone for the better part of an hour seemed to have been wrapped up. Satisfactorily, judging by the smile on her face as she gathered her things and met him.

Karen glanced over her shoulder as they walked down the hall, taking in the sight of Gibson and O'Hara seated on one of the wooden benches, sipping their coffee and conversing easily.

"What is _that_ about?"

"That would seem to be Gib laying the groundwork to make a move on O'Hara."

"You seem remarkably untroubled by the prospect," she observed as they exited the station into the late-afternoon sunlight.

"He's a successful professional who's had some bad luck in the personal relationship department. The right woman might be just the thing he needs." Because Gibson, for all his outward easygoing nature wasn't really happy and hadn't been for a long time. Carlton had been so miserable for so long, he'd been unable to recognize it—now, it seemed so damned obvious and left him feeling like a monumental dick.

"You think that woman could be O'Hara?" She brushed a wind-tossed lock of hair from her face as she stood alongside his car.

"I don't know," he admitted as he placed his briefcase, then hers, in the back seat before opening the passenger door for her. "He could definitely do worse. And God knows, _she's_ already doing worse."

"Good point," she agreed with a nod.

Before she could ease into the car, he gently grasped her arm, holding her steady from the opposite side of the door. Gazing into the deep amber depths of her eyes, he said, "What I do know is that love can find you in the damnedest places. And at the unlikeliest times."

Her smile sent a charge straight through him, prompting him, despite being out in the open expanse of the SBPD parking lot, to lean over the door frame and kiss her perfect, full mouth.

"Have I mentioned lately how wonderful it is to drive home with you?" he murmured against her mouth.

"Have I mentioned lately how wonderful it is for you to drive home into me?" she whispered against his ear before pulling away and settling herself in the seat with an enticing smile

"Right. Roger that," he muttered, slamming the door shut. As he rounded the front of the car, he noticed her unfastening a button, then another, on her blouse, prompting him to yank off his tie and toss it to the back the minute he was in the driver's seat. Turning the key in the ignition with one hand, he fumbled with the buttons on his shirt with the other, desperately trying to get air to his overheated skin.

"Jesus, Karen, I have to get us home in one piece."

In response, the evil woman put her hand on his thigh, dangerously high, and drawled in a too-innocent voice, "By the way, did I tell you that Iris has a playdate this afternoon and is going to be staying for dinner? She won't be home until close to bedtime."

"Jesus, Karen," he groaned, his hormones revving into overdrive as he did his best to maneuver out of the parking lot without hitting any other cars, pedestrians, or the damned annoying geese that hung out by the fountain.

Karen's hand massaged his thigh in slow maddening circles as he drove, while at red lights she leaned across the console to nibble at his ear and trace enticing, erotic patterns on his neck with the tip of her tongue. She knew just how far she could go—when she needed to draw back, lest he drive off the side of the road— and judging by her rapid breathing, was torturing herself every bit as much as she was torturing him.

But when he got her home…

_Then_—torture would take on a whole new meaning and damn, was he looking forward to it.

As he pulled into the driveway, however, her phone rang, allowing him to draw a breath that was equal parts frustrated and relieved.

Well, at least the Chief of Police and Head Detective wouldn't get busted for public indecency.

"What? Oh dear God, no. _No—_"

Carlton's blood ran cold as he saw the color drain from her face—heard the panic in her voice.

"Is it Iris?" he asked urgently, a fear unlike any he'd ever experienced nearly making his heart stop. "Karen, is it Iris?" Blood rushed in his ears and a wave of relief washed over him at the frantic shake of her head. As she blindly reached out, he took her hand in his, holding tight, desperately trying to restore warmth. Karen was always warm—she was never cold and he didn't like it.

And he downright hated the film of tears masking her eyes and dulling the deep brown to something flat and expressionless as she slowly lowered the phone to her lap and turned to face him.

With his free hand, he cupped her face, smoothed her hair back, touched her everywhere he could. "Karen—sweetheart, what it is?"

She stared at him blankly for a moment.

"Carlton?"

"I'm here—" Impatiently, he unfastened his seatbelt and hers, and leaned across the console to gather her close—to warm her. "What is it?"

She sighed—a terrifying sort of sigh—as she burrowed close, her arms around his neck, holding onto him as if her life depended on it.

"Dear God, Carlton—Henry's been shot."


	24. Chapter 24

**Safety in Numbers**

Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in **psych**_**, **_not even a grain of sand in the playground. TPTB own everything, I own nothing, no infringement intended, just having some fun playing "What if…"

Obviously, not knowing what the Evil Writers have in store for next season, let's just assume despite last chapter's tie-in to the finale, that we're heading off into seriously non-canon territory. At least, even more non-canon than we've already gone.

* * *

><p>"Marry me."<p>

Carlton turned from where he'd been staring out the bedroom window at the approaching dawn. Henry Spencer would live—thanks to McNab's thoroughness, Shawn's quick thinking, and an excellent team of trauma surgeons. Thanks also to McNab's thoroughness and Shawn's quick thinking, Henry's attacker was already behind bars.

It had been a long night, but one that would end well and for that, Carlton was thankful. Almost as thankful as he was for the woman he faced, silhouetted in the bathroom door, exhausted, work worn, and more beautiful than ever.

"I was under the impression we were already planning on doing just that," he replied, leaning against the windowsill.

"I mean today."

He cocked his head, waiting

Karen's shoulders rose and fell with her slow breath. "The mayor knows about us—that's who I was on the phone with before we left yesterday."

Carlton lifted an eyebrow. "Oh?"

A tired half-smile lifted a corner of her mouth. "Clerk at the records office noticed the filing of our marriage license. Told a friend who works in the mayor's office, who told two friends and they told two friends until finally, it made its way to the mayor's secretary and well…"

God_dammit_. Just like he'd told Gib—people were damned nosy. "How'd he take it?"

She shrugged. "Remarkably well, I think, especially after I revealed I'd been divorced more than a year before we ever got involved and that we've been together more than six months." She climbed into the bed and leaned back against the pillows with a tired sigh.

"He did express the expected concern over potential conflict of interests but for the most part, let it go. I guess the six months without any incidences or raising of suspicions means we must be doing our jobs right."

"Not to mention that in those same six months you've written me up four times for pulling my weapon without cause, two of which were perfectly justified, by the way—" He ignored her eyeroll and continued. "Probably went a long way towards convincing him that it's going to be business as usual at work. And what happens behind closed doors is no one's damned business."

He slipped between the sheets and gathered her close, breathing in her just showered scent. The sharp green apple of her shampoo balanced out by the softer jasmine of her body lotion, the combination so evocative of the woman. "But this doesn't really have anything to do with the sudden rush to the altar. What's going on, baby—really?"

Taking her hand in his, he ran his thumb over her ring. Patience had never been his strong suit, but from the beginning, much as he'd wanted to be with Karen, he'd also understood she was worth waiting for. The remarkable thing was how that patience had extended to other aspects of their lives together. Outside their lives, though? The rest of the world tended to be stupid and not worth wasting time on.

Rolling her head back on his shoulder, she gazed up at him, her amber brown eyes clear and translucent and so full of love—for _him_—he felt his breath catch.

"When I got the news about Henry," she began slowly, "I was upset yeah, and more than a little scared, but God forgive me, Carlton, the real basis of my fear was that it could have been you."

"It could have," he agreed gently, moving his hand to her hair, running his fingers through the damp strands. "It could have been any one of us. But it wasn't."

He wouldn't admit to having experienced the same nauseating combination of fear and relief—not tonight. Another night, in the darkness that so often served as confessional, he'd tell her, knowing she'd understand and knowing that it would stay here because it was knowledge that had no business wandering free beyond the safety of their closed doors. That was the kind of thinking that could get one or both of them killed. Another reason—maybe the most important one—for their intense demarcation between work and home.

Her gaze was steady, the backs of her fingers brushing along his jaw with infinite care. "This time."

He sighed. Once upon a time he'd taken great pride in how many people had him on their personal hit lists. Far as he was concerned, meant he was doing his job right. Now, though—he had to pay the piper in the form of Karen's ongoing concern and fear for him. She'd been scared back then, she'd confessed during another one of those endless nights—when Salamatchia had been gunning for him. At that time more because she valued him as a colleague and even on some level, as a friend. Now though, it was different and while at work she firmly remained Chief Vick, dressing him down when necessary and sending him out into the field with her usual cool efficiency and confidence he'd get the job done, at home—as Karen—she feared for him.

"It's always a risk, Karen—we both know that and accept it."

"But it happened so damned fast—so out of nowhere." She exhaled a shaky breath. "I mean, my God, Jerry Carp was one of Henry's _partners_. Lou Gamble… Jack Atwater—he put his life in their hands time and again and they sold him _out_."

He held her closely. "Come on, Karen, if O'Hara hasn't killed me yet…"

"Stop it, Carlton. I'm not kidding." She jerked away from him, shoving her hands through her hair. "It's just… I don't want…" In the pool of light cast by the bedside lamp, her gaze was brilliant, the deep brown brightened to an almost golden hue, as if lit from within by her fury and love. "I'll be damned if anyone ever tries to stop me from doing everything in my power to protect you," she all but snarled. "Whether it's as your boss or as your wife."

Carlton stared, dumbfounded. He knew she loved him. That hadn't been in question for a long time now. And yet… she still could still completely take his knees out from under him with the sheer power of her emotions. Shifting to face her, he ran a steady hand over her lovely, elegant features, leaning forward to follow the same trail with his mouth, finally ending up in the soft, tender spot alongside her ear.

"I'd pay folding money to see anyone try to stop you, Karen Vick." Her long sigh was warm against his skin, as sensuous an embrace as her arms around him. "Married or not."

Reluctantly, he pulled back, because he could have easily lived in that spot, tasting her, learning her all over again, for endless moments, but he needed to look into her eyes again. Framing her face with his hands, he met her gaze with his own.

"I made you a promise, Karen—that I was going to do this right—and I'm going to keep to that promise."

Her brows drew together as her hands rose to gently grasp his wrists, her thumbs rubbing slow, erotic circles on the insides. "What does waiting any longer to get married have to do with right?"

"Because we're not going to do it as a knee-jerk reaction to a near-tragedy." He had to spit this out in a hurry because the woman was slowly driving him insane with those slow, intimate caresses to the sensitive skin of his wrists. "That's not the first memory I want associated with our marriage."

Her eyes widened, the tiny shards of green and gold illuminating the deep brown. "Oh," she said softly, looking as if she'd had her knees taken out from under her, too, making him smile. Nice to know he could have the same effect.

"This weekend," he went on. "I'll take care of it. You just get a pretty dress for Iris and show up and we'll start making our own memories."

A wry smile curved her lovely full mouth as her hands traveled along his arms and briefly caressed his shoulders before sinking into his hair. Holding him steady, she shook her head.

"You doofus," she said gently, "we've been making our own memories since the day I discovered you nursing a massive concussion."

"Fair point," he conceded, his thumb tracing the sensuous curve of her lower lip. "So let's just say it'll be the beginning of the next act."

He shivered and felt heat building as she bit the pad of his thumb. "So what's this now, then?" she whispered, her breath warm and damp, her tongue a soft torture as it glanced against his skin.

Easing her down to the mattress, he lay completely over her, claiming her with the weight of his body and his love. Feeling her claim him, one leg sinuously wrapping itself around his thigh, as her hands reached beneath his shirt, skimming up his abdomen and coming to rest on his chest—right over his heart.

"Let's just call this," he murmured against the soft skin of her throat, "a big number."

"Mmm…" she sighed, her breasts pressing into his chest, "I hope this show has lots of them."

"It's the composer's signature—inspired by his muse."

"Oh, how I love this composer."

Propping himself up on an elbow, he gazed down into her beautiful, aroused face. "How the composer loves his muse," he said quietly, wondering, yet again, how in the hell he'd managed to luck out so damned hard.

You know, maybe it was something best not questioned and simply accepted for the gift it was. Still more evidence of how loving this woman had changed him.

Her return grin briefly widened before being replaced by something darker and more intent. Pulling his head down to hers, she kissed him, hard, hot, and full of that same fiery intent while her free hand began shoving offending clothing out of the way.

"So what are you waiting for?" she whispered as soon as she'd tossed his t-shirt aside. "Play me."


	25. Epilogue

**Safety in Numbers**

Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in **psych**_**, **_not even a grain of sand in the playground. TPTB own everything, I own nothing, no infringement intended, just having some fun playing "What if…"

So here we go —this one's for Loafer, who cajoled and browbeat in all the best ways for the story to continue. A full-on happy ending with Bonus!Gib!

* * *

><p><em><strong>Epilogue<strong>_

"…I now pronounce you—"

"Oh, God." Carlton's hands trembled in Karen's, prompting her to hold on tighter, savoring the sweet pressure of his new wedding band against her skin.

"I know you've got a healthy ego, Carl, but that's a bit big-headed—even for you."

"Bite me," he shot back over his shoulder at Riley, even though his brilliant blue gaze never once left Karen's face. She bit her lip, hardly able to believe it. They were married—almost.

"Please—" she begged of the justice performing the ceremony, wanting it to be _done_, already. Wanting to shout it out across the waves and from rooftops and every other damned cliché, that she, Karen Vick—Karen Lassiter—was married to a man who thrilled and infuriated her in equal measure. Who was an inveterate, cranky pain in the ass, with a heart that couldn't be matched. Who loved her so completely, she couldn't remember what it was like _not_ to be loved by him.

And he was _hers_, dammit. At least, if the poor justice could be allowed to finish.

"You," she directed over Carlton's shoulder at Riley, "hush." To the justice, she repeated, "Please?"

The justice, a woman in her fifties who was an old acquaintance of Carlton's and who'd clearly seen it all, nodded. With an enormous smile, she finished, "Husband… and wife." Placing both her hands over Karen and Carlton's joined ones, she quietly said, "Be well together. And you—" She winked at Carlton. "Kiss your lovely bride."

Karen's heart skipped a beat at the slow smile that crossed his face and deepened the shade of his eyes to the intense flame blue that promised… _everything_. "With pleasure."

As she rose on tiptoes to meet his kiss, Riley's amused, "Come on, Iris, this might not be fit for your tender eyes. Let's go check out the waves," floated past, but she just didn't care. All she cared about in this exact moment was that she had this man in her arms and was bound to him, for better, for worse, and every damned thing in between.

She felt Carlton's smile against her mouth at Iris' exasperated, "Get a grip, Uncle Gib—I've seen Mommy and Carlton kiss a lot. That's 'cause they love each other you know."

"Yeah, kiddo—I know. You're a lucky girl—to be surrounded by so much love, because you know, they love you, too."

Iris sighed gustily. "I know." From the corner of her vision, Karen could see the little girl shaking her head almost mournfully at Gib.

"Why don't we all go look at the waves and let them enjoy their first kiss as a married couple?" Juliet O'Hara—the gentle, yet firm, voice of reason as always.

Karen had asked Juliet to stand with her today mostly because Barb was still out on patrol and even though she could have come in, Karen had been reluctant to ask, given that her sister's reaction to learning that Karen and Carlton were together was a smug, "I knew you wanted him all along. Enjoy the sloppy seconds."

As _if_.

There were no sloppy seconds about it, and well did Barb know it. And well did she know that Karen knew it, too. But given a peaceful wedding day had been their primary objective, not such a surprise, then, that the only blood relative happened to be Iris. She was the one they both loved unreservedly.

As the voices drifted off on the salt-scented breezes, Karen gave herself over completely to Carlton's kiss, at first slow and tender, the perfect first kiss as husband and wife, gradually deepening into more. His normally stern mouth relaxed further as his tongue stroked against hers in a slow, sensual, deliberate rhythm—basic and primal and hot with promise.

The perfect kiss for forever.

Knees weak, she leaned against him, feeling a telltale stirring through his slacks, the sensation stoking her own arousal. Everything about him—the strength of his arms around her, his heartbeat against her chest, the soft texture of his hair beneath her palms, the taste and smell of him—everything familiar and desirable and _hers_, dammit, served to arouse her further.

"I love you so much, Carlton," she sighed against his cheek as he drew back slightly, his own breathing ragged.

"I don't know that I even have words for what I feel for you." He stared down at her, his expression trapped between wonder and passion.

"There's one really good one," she replied, capturing his left hand in hers.

"Oh?" One eyebrow rose in blessedly familiar fashion.

"Yeah." She smiled, rubbing her thumb over the gleaming gold of his wedding band—warm already from his body heat. "Wife."

His entire expression shifted subtly, the wonder deepening and relaxing and in that moment she felt his complete and total acceptance. After seven years working closely together, six months of an improbable, yet somehow inevitable relationship, and five minutes of marriage, he finally truly accepted that she was irrevocably his—forever.

"Beloved wife," he corrected softly, one hand brushing her hair from her face, his touch leaving a fiery trail of sensation in its wake.

Turning her head, she kissed his palm. "Beloved husband," she murmured, relishing the faint salty taste of his skin, heat building as she imagined tasting him all over. Gazing into his handsome, smiling face, she said, "Let's get Iris and go home, okay?"

Wedding notwithstanding, their intent for the rest of their day was for remarkably ordinary and uneventful. Just the three of them spending a normal Saturday together as a family and that was exactly how they wanted it.

Karen turned in the circle of Carlton's arms, his warmth solid and secure behind her as she searched for Iris. She spotted her a ways down the beach, contentedly walking in the damp sand and inspecting her footprints as a few feet away, Juliet and Riley stood side-by-side, backlit by the sun lowering over the ocean. Obviously silent as they kept an eye on Iris, there was nevertheless something about their body language… Something that suggested they were still managing to communicate, even without exchanging a single word.

Carlton's quiet "Huh," rumbled against her back.

"Leave it, honey," she warned. It had been a difficult week, Shawn withdrawing in the wake of Henry's shooting, his terror at almost losing his father causing him to shut down and shy away from everyone he cared about. Despite keeping a typically O'Hara front, cheerful and supportive, Shawn's aloofness had hurt her—the idea that even now, after everything they'd been through, he wouldn't let her in. Wouldn't trust her.

Carlton had been like that once. But their love had changed that—at least where she was concerned. It remained to be seen what would happen between Shawn and Juliet, but that was for them to sort out.

"Trust me, I know most of my strengths and weaknesses and matchmaking would _definitely_ fall under the heading of weakness. Anything happens, it's up to them."

With a sigh, she leaned back against his chest, savoring the feel of his arms resting over her midriff. Idly, she wondered… Well—it would happen if it happened. In the meantime, they had Iris and each other and their love. More than enough.

"Carlton Lassiter admitting to weakness? How novel," she teased.

"I'm feeling remarkably mellow and generous." His lips grazed the rim of her ear, his teeth lightly teasing the sensitive skin.

"Well then, let me take advantage." Karen fought to take a full breath—difficult when he insisted on nibbling and oh… was that the tip of his tongue? "Any other weaknesses you're willing to divulge?"

"Well, undercover work, of course" he whispered, his tongue leaving a damp-hot trail against her skin that rapidly cooled and left her shivering.

"Of course," she managed, her fingers curling hard around his hands.

As if sensing her need for extra support, his arms tightened around her.

"But I have to confess… my biggest weakness is right here." One hand rose, the backs of his fingers trailing along her cheek.

"You're it, Karen. My biggest weakness—" She felt his breath shudder through his chest. "And my biggest strength."

Tears pricked the backs of her eyes.

"Carlton?"

"Yeah?"

"Take me home."

"It would be my pleasure—" He turned her in his arms and smiled down at her. "Mrs. Lassiter."

She returned his grin. "Behind closed doors."

His smile broadened, equal parts humor and seductive. "Roger that, Chief Vick. Good thing I plan to keep those doors closed for a good long time, then."

"How long?"

His mouth brushed against hers. "The rest of our lives."

_**~Fin**_


End file.
